


And Where It Began Again

by sp_oops



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst, Blades, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, First Time, High Fucks Outsider, Hurt/Comfort, Low Chaos Corvo Attano, Low Chaos Emily Kaldwin, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Post-DotO, Praise Kink, Smoking, You're Welcome, absolutely inconceivable amounts of yearning, ah hell i turned the outsider into kaz brekker lite, canon-bending (probably) bonecraft carving, costarring daud as the new void god, everybody tops and bottoms, if "first time" counts when you're 4000 years old and have Seen It All, like he gives a lot of them and no one is more surprised than him, rough-adjacent sex, should i have already tagged for an aged-up outsider, smut is in chapters 16-18, theyre so in love and so convinced they're the only one, voyeurism with dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 110,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25188607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp_oops/pseuds/sp_oops
Summary: former whale god and current sad dad try to overthrow the abbey without revealing they’re in love with each other, news at 11(Or, the Outsider is human again, but no one knows him except his Marked—so he’s certain Corvo won’t, either. Meanwhile, Corvo, adrift without his Mark and the sudden silence from the Outsider, tries to move on. But a chance meeting hurls the two of them back into each other’s orbit just as the corrupt Abbey is regaining power in Dunwall. It’s up to them to stop the Overseers before they hurt anyone else—including each other).
Relationships: Corvo Attano/The Outsider (Dishonored)
Comments: 338
Kudos: 261





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [shows up four years late with ~~starbu~~ ~~40K~~ ~~50K~~ A LOT OF words of post-DotO content] hey is anybody still down for human outsider/corvo yearning because void knows I am, please come along with me on this journey of pining with a happy ending.
> 
> title comes from a line the outsider says [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qTwwM9_ZOuc&feature=youtu.be&t=657).
> 
> special thanks to [espurd](https://espurd.tumblr.com/) (for reading like every focking version of the first few chaps, bless your patience) and [risenlucifer](https://risenlucifer.tumblr.com/) (for all the cheerleading). without them, this would just be random capslocked squee-ings.
> 
> gonna try to post every friday. vast majority of this is written/complete, the back half just needs a thorough editing. 
> 
> <3

When Delilah drags the Outsider’s Mark off Corvo’s hand shard by burning shard, the pain turns his vision white, steals the breath from his lungs. As the Void leaves him, a flickering twist of curiosity—entirely not his own—scuttles along the threads of magic briefly connecting him to Delilah. But when the Mark is nearly gone, beneath that fascination, Corvo feels something as distant and ominous as an oncoming storm: _fury_. And beneath it, a heart-shattering pang of despair. Anguish. _Loss_.

She’s made the Outsider angry.

And people don’t just take the playthings of gods and _live_.

It’s Corvo’s last comforting thought before the marble swallows him cold.

*

*

*

Of course, this isn’t the first time the Outsider has seen the world. But looking at it through smoke-roiled, slate-gray dark is one thing. Here, squinting in the light of a gold Karnacan sunset, a hundred different scents in His nose—it’s something else entirely. He closes His eyes and drops His arm, lets the sun warm His face. Takes a deep, steadying breath.

He can feel Billie watching Him. She’s a wraith leaning in a slash of shadow just inside the alley. She says, “What do you think?”

He considers this. “I think I’m…hungry?”

Billie pushes off from the wall. Claps Him on the shoulder. “Follow me.”

Nobody pays them any mind. Nobody seems to recognize Him. Not the trio of fiddlers with an open instrument case laid trustingly and hopefully at their feet, nor a sailor painting a piss on a nearby wall. A safe-maker, a fishmonger, a tailor, even an Overseer—they pass in a blur, gazes drifting over and through without ever landing.

He knows them. Or at least, He knows many of them, the ones He cared enough to notice, if not to Mark. Their secrets follow them like shadows. He can recall their every possible future like fanning a deck of cards across the felted green of a gambling table.

How can He still summon that information now that He’s mortal? How long will He get to keep it? Will the knowledge just...fade away, until He forgets He ever knew it at all?

Whatever He knows about them, it’s clear no one knows Him. His face should be the most recognizable in the world; Sokolov’s portrait inspired a hundred more like it. _Yes_ , everyone said, well out of earshot of Overseers and the Abbey, _that’s Him. The raven-eyed, raven-haired boy in the Void. We’ve dreamed of Him_.

Yet He walks in their midst—they look right at Him—and no one so much as blinks.

It doesn’t matter. There’s freedom in anonymity.

Corvo will know Him, and that’s what matters. The bond they’ve built...things like that don’t just fade away.

Probably. Hopefully.

Billie takes Him to a tavern in one of the nicer districts. She shoulders through the noisy interior and He trails close behind, trying not to gape wide-eyed and slack-mouthed at the rush of people and sounds and smells. They emerge onto a twilit patio, close enough to the sea that He can smell the saltwater mingling with smoke from the grills. Battered wooden tables wobble over threadbare gravel. Tallow candles flicker on every surface, anchored in their own melting wax. A lone fiddler warms up by the outside bar.

Dark ale sloshes out of the tin mugs set in front of them. “Coldest beer this side of Karnaca,” Billie promises. She lifts her tankard. “To your health?”

“To yours.” He sips. The sweet-salt dark of the ale floods His mouth, then fizzles into His throat and along His nerves. Caramel rises against His tongue. He finds Himself gasping. Then drinking again. Deeply.

Billie just smiles as she brushes foam from her upper lip. Her right arm is back to normal, through no choice of His. Same with her eye.

Heavy trenchers hit the table next. Some kind of roast animal shining with fat, nestled in beds of seared vegetables and dark wine gravy. A thick slice of brown bread sits lodged beside it all. He tries to take His time. He truly does.

“Take it there aren’t any decent dinner joints in the Void,” says Billie. “How long’s it been since you ate?”

“Too long.” He can’t help but smile at her. “Just… _far_ too long.” He’d forgotten what this is like—shared meals and strong drinks. He’d forgotten there was pleasure in it. The last time was…before the original Cultists, even. A time He doesn’t care to remember.

“We’ll have to get dessert, too.”

He blinks at her. “Days ago you were pulling spare coins out of cash registers.”

“Hey, you let me worry about the bill.” She leans back in her seat. “Tell me something. You remember anything about—how we got out of there?”

She doesn’t have to define _there_. She means the Void. And though the Outsider wracks His brain, He can’t remember, either. The last memory He has is begging Billie to choose wisely. He says, “Not really.”

“I remember Daud speaking your name.” She flexes her right hand. “And then nothing. Not until we had to sneak our way past two dozen pissed-off cultists.”

“That’s all I have, too.”

“Maybe it’s for the best. Whatever happened, nobody seems to recognize either of us.” Billie studies him. “So what will you do now?”

“I thought I’d—” And He realizes, suddenly, that He has no idea how to answer.

He thought He might turn up on the steps of Dunwall Tower. Ask for an audience with the Empress and Royal Protector and enjoy the looks of abject terror as the guards realize they aren’t dreaming and aren’t dead, but the Outsider walks among them anyway.

But how’s He supposed to do that? Nobody recognizes Him.

And if no one here does…then Corvo won’t, either.

The thought takes Him aback. The lack of an answer presses down on Him. All He can think of is Corvo, looking at Him with indifference. _Who’s this?,_ asked casually, carelessly. An unintentional cruelty that would slice to the bone.

Corvo tried at indifference long ago, as transparent as it was. Other fools wept or begged or murmured words that dripped with devotion. Corvo masked his own fear in raised brows, cutting smirks. Once, Corvo didn’t even let the Outsider speak first. Just grunted, “If you’re here to give me another sermon, you can fuck right back to the shitheap the Void grew you from.”

He cherished Corvo for it. And He cherished Corvo’s bruised, broken heart, his obstinate determination not to bruise anyone else’s. The Royal Protector could’ve left a trail of corpses from Slaughterhouse Row to Kingsparrow Island. It certainly would’ve been easier; grief and rage shadowed his every move. It wouldn’t even have been the first time the Outsider offered the Mark to someone He believed might be beyond corruption. But unlike all the others, unlike everything His endless sight predicted, Corvo kept his hands clean.

They developed a sort of mutual respect, the Outsider thought. He and Corvo were both blamed for things they didn’t do, influence they didn’t have. Both of them inspired fear and respect in equal amounts. Both of them were— _are_ —profoundly alone and desperate not to be, and they’ve buried that desperation too deep to touch. It was obvious, the Outsider thought, the comfort they found in one another. The bond He tried to strengthen over the last fifteen years.

When Billie freed Him, He’d thought maybe He’d—

Maybe He’d what, exactly?

Corvo won’t recognize Him. And even if he did, who’s to say he’d want anything to do with the Outsider?

So what’s He going to do in this dreary world by Himself?

Billie says, “Outsider?”

He takes another drink of the ale. Savors it. “Start over,” He says.

*

*

*

Corvo wakes to chaos.

Witches, corpses, rampant greenery. The streets around the Tower are half in rubble, all in gangs. The Overseers are dead. Half of Parliament has left the city; the other half takes convincing to come out of hiding. His spymaster contacts around the Empire are so rudderless without him, he’s forced to call everyone in.

Worst of all is Emily’s hand, hidden in a leather wrap to mirror his own. Except Delilah stole his Mark, so he’s got nothing to hide anymore. Emily does.

Damn the Outsider for putting that burden on Emily. Damn the Outsider for giving her Jessamine’s heart and then letting it turn it rotten with Delilah’s soul. And damn the Outsider for not pulling Corvo out of that marble, giving the Mark back, and letting him take Delilah down right then and there.

He knows that’s not how the Outsider works. He damn well knows it.

It doesn’t stop him from wishing things were different. He can’t tell how much of the anguish churning in his chest is for that burden Emily now carries, or the fact that the Outsider hasn’t offered to give Corvo’s back. Hasn’t even stopped in.

Weeks later, Corvo and Emily are sitting side by side on the steps up to the throne, well after dark. The two of them (well, chiefly, Emily) are sharing a bottle of whiskey, decanted a few fingers at a time into short, heavy, faceted tumblers. They’ve been working to clear the room of debris and the wild anarchy of Delilah’s trees and plants.

It’s getting there, slowly. They’ve hired more staff to help. Welcomed back the few who fled and survived. The Tower is nearly ready for visitors again, and good thing—next week, they’re hosting an audience with the newly arrived High Overseer. Ambrose Gideon.

Beyond the few lamps they’ve left glowing, the throne room is dark as the Void, and Emily says so. “The Outsider talked about you,” she adds, her whiskey tumbler cradled in both hands.

Corvo won’t ask what she heard. He’ll sound like a lovelorn youth too cowardly to make a move, relying on a friend for gossip. So instead he says, “The Outsider talks about a lot of things.”

“He does.” Emily smirks. “But it sounds like you made an impression. I got the feeling He missed you, actually.”

 _He missed you._ Corvo shoves the warmth of that aside before the whiskey can make him linger on it. “Maybe. I think He was just surprised I didn’t paint Dunwall red with blood.”

She puts her drink aside and leans back on her hands. “He told me what happened to Him.”

Corvo frowns. “‘What happened,’ when?”

“To make Him a god.” Her eyes are a little unfocused, remembering. “I didn’t know He was… _made_. I just assumed He’s existed as long as the Void.”

Corvo should leave it alone. If the Outsider hasn’t shared it with him, then the Outsider didn’t want him to know. But he’s always been hungry to know more. To _understand_ more about the strange man who changed his life. He says, “What do you mean, He was _made?_ ”

Emily tells him about the cultists. The slab, how they tied Him back against it before opening His throat. How Delilah found that section of the Void and stole from it, warped it, made it part of herself.

It’s horrible. The violation of it—not just the cultists, but Delilah, too. Corvo knows that kind of betrayal. He knows what it’s like to have one’s peace upended by force.

When Emily’s done, he can only say, “It sounds like you made an impression on Him, too.”

“Do you think He’d appear?” she asks, mischief in her eyes. “If we asked Him to?”

Corvo scoffs. “He only appears when you _don’t_ want Him to. If you—” And here bitterness twists his words. “—if you get greedy, He’ll never forgive you for it.”

Emily studies him with that look that says she’s deep in thought. “Maybe He’d make an exception for you.”

For the hundredth time since the marble melted away (since Emily pressed his sword back into his hand and, to his look of sinking terror, only said, “I didn’t need it.”), Corvo thinks of Delilah pulling the brand from his skin. The heat of the Outsider’s anger, and that brief, anguished flash of despair as they were separated.

Until he had to live without it, he hadn’t realized how much he’d come to depend on the Mark. Severed from the Void, from the Outsider, he feels adrift. As though...damn it. As though part of himself is missing. There have been no late-night visits, no waking dreams. He’s alone. For the first time since—fuck, that first night in the Hound Pits so long ago—he feels totally alone.

 _Can you even hear me?_ Corvo thinks. He imagines it echoing around the room. Into the Void. _Do you even care?_

*

*

*

It shocks the Outsider, how badly He wants to sail to Dunwall, stride into the Tower, and beg Corvo to remember. It’s an ache in His very human heart, a knife in the ribs that twists every time He thinks of it. But Corvo won’t know Him. That’s the end of it. Corvo will not recognize the Outsider, and the Outsider has to make peace with that.

With time, He knows, the ache will fade. All aches do, even the ones people hold on to because the ache is all they have.

So maybe He can’t find a home in Dunwall Tower. But He thinks He might have enough secrets, enough information— _leverage_ —to help the Empress take back control of her city, all without emerging from the shadows. He could get the gangs under control. Undercut the iron grip of the Overseers and the City Watch. Give commerce a nudge.

And if He does that—

If He does that and Dunwall thrives, perhaps He isn’t the only one who might find peace. Perhaps Corvo could find some, too.

He and Billie catch a ride on a fishing vessel taking its southern haul up the coast, sharing a small room with bunks barely big enough to hold them. He spends most of His time up on deck anyway, pitching in with chores, or with His arms hooked over the stern railing, watching whales breach in the frothy wake of the ship.

The second day aboard, locked in the washroom, scrubbing a towel over His face, The Outsider catches His own gaze in the small, hazy mirror above the sink.

He looks older, He thinks. Not _tired_ older. _Actually_ older. “Late twenties?” Billie guesses when He asks. “No—early thirties, more like.”

The Outsider touches the dark stubble starting to shadow the line of His jaw. “How?”

“No idea. The Void gave you a parting gift, maybe.”

He studies His reflection. His irises shift between pale sage and storm gray. He can’t recall if that’s the color He—that He had before. “I suppose it did.”

He and Billie part ways when they reach Dunwall. “You’re sure you’ll be all right,” says Billie, eyes narrowed. They’re standing on the pier, her scant bag of belongings over her shoulder.

“I’ll be fine.” He smiles, and means it. “Thank you, Billie Lurk. For everything.”

She grips His shoulder. “Come find me if you need me,” she says. “Once I get another ship, I’m history, but I’d come back if you sent word.”

His smile broadens. “You were ready to kill me just weeks ago.”

She shrugs. “Things change.”

She’s right. Change is the only thing He’s ever been able to trust. Or it was, until He gave His Mark to someone who proved himself different, over and over—

“Stay out of trouble, Outsider.” And then Billie’s gone, boots chopping on the wooden planks of the pier.

From here, He’s got a perfect view of Dunwall Tower rising out of the gray skyline like the fortress it is. He studies the blue-and-gold pendants snapping in the breeze off the Wrenhaven.

Corvo is there. Corvo, who He last felt in panic, in pain, torn away from Him. Corvo, who He vowed to avenge until Delilah proved too clever, too _close_ , and He was forced to reach out to Emily—

A shadow falls across the pier. It’s a tall ironclad, drifting downriver toward the western harbor. Unlike other ships of its size, no frames suspend a whale carcass abovedecks.

The windows suggest it’s a passenger vessel. But emblazoned on the side: a trident speared through a gold semi-circle. The symbol of the Abbey of the Everyman.

“That’ll be the Overseers, then,” says the captain of the fishing vessel. She’s caught the Outsider staring as she winds up a length of rope on the other side of the gunwale.

The Outsider blinks at her. “Overseers?”

“Yeah. You didn’t hear about Delilah and her witches? Damn near took out the whole Abbey here in Dunwall. And you can’t run an Abbey without Overseers, so.” She nods toward the towering ship. “Guess they’re bringing more from around the continents.”

 _I’m human now,_ He reminds Himself. _There’s nothing to fear from them._

He puts them out of His mind for the moment. It’s time to get to work.

* * *

He’s had four thousand years to speculate on whether, one day, He might be free of the Void. So not all of His Marked are interesting.

Some are just _useful._

He goes to a banker in Dunwall’s fledgling new financial district. In a turreted building of sun-bleached stone, He finds her: a pale woman who wears expensive leather gloves that fit like second skins. Lettie Vainglass.

The Outsider pauses at the open threshold of her office, His hands folded behind His back. Shoulders braced. He says, “I’m here to cash in.”

Lettie turns from her bookshelves. The inkwell in her hand drops, shatters against the tile floor, spatters her boots with black. “Outsider,” she says, hoarse. Her wide blue eyes trace Him up and down. “You’re—you haven’t brought the Void with—are you _human_?”

He’s fighting to rein in His surprise. “You recognize me.”

She peels down the edge of one glove. His Mark still shows black and crisp as night against the back of her hand. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“People seem not to.” Already a spark has ignited inside His chest, breathed to a flicker that glows and crackles. _Perhaps Corvo_ —but Corvo doesn’t have His Mark anymore. Delilah severed their connection with brutal, casual efficiency. She even, He still thinks, _enjoyed_ His flash of wounded horror. “I suppose the Mark anchors your memory.”

“There’s been talk.” Lettie takes a cautious step forward, leaving two clean boot-shaped marks on the inky tile. “A man in the Flooded District turned up with a strange symbol on his left hand. Not yours—something different.”

Who... _how_ —

And the memory rushes up.

_“It asked,” said Daud, his eyes black and soft as the deepest mires of the Void. “I answered.”_

_Billie didn’t understand. “What asked?”_

_“The Void.” Daud disintegrated into shards of darkness, then reassembled a few steps to the left. As though he’d done it a thousand times. He peered into the abyss. “I’ve got nothing to lose. Why not?”_

_Billie wavered. “You can’t want this.”_

_“I’ve done a lot of things I regret,” Daud said. “You know that better than anyone. But from here, maybe I can make a difference. Do something good.” He grasped her arm, the one made of steel and Void magic, and then—it was whole again, flesh and bone. The bloodred fist of stone in her right eye was gone, replaced with pupil and iris and sclera. She fell back, clutching her arm, her face._

_Daud turned to the Outsider. “And you,” he said. “Let’s do you a favor. The world isn’t kind to the young. I can keep you from looking like the youth you were the day they cut your throat and sent you here. Anything else you want?”_

_The Outsider hesitated. He was overcome. Shaky with the kind of emotion He’d forgotten He could feel. “I don’t want to forget—” He caught Himself before He could say Corvo’s name. Instead He gulped, touching His throat, fingertips searching for a seam that wasn’t there. He found a pulse instead, thrumming and alive. “I don’t want to forget,” He said again, more final._

_Daud nodded like he knew anyway. “I’ll see what I can do. But no guarantees you’ll remember this conversation. That’s for my protection. And yours.”_

_The air shimmered. He gasped—_

Finally, some answers.

The Outsider goes to a knee and dips a finger in the spilled ink. Draws right on the tile: a lightning strike cradled with two rows of spiked curves. Spots a graceful arc.

It’s Daud’s name in the language of the dead. Of the Void. A rough translation, because it’s un-translatable. Unspeakable.

Lettie gulps. Her blonde bangs—longer than the rest of her shorn style—hang in her face, half obscuring her wide eyes. “Not surprised you know. What’s it mean?”

“It means I’m no longer necessary.” The Outsider rises to his feet. In a strange way, he—he feels more free now than he did standing in that sunbeam in Serkonos, taking in the whole of the world. “I’m cashing in,” he reminds Lettie.

She nods, glancing at her ruined boots. “A moment,” she says. “Then I’ll take you to your vault.”

* * *

He rents a flat with a view of the Clocktower, ten blocks north and three stories up over a small, neglected square. The building is little more than construction debris held together with hope and plaster, but it sits above a quiet little tavern where he can take his meals.

He has no possessions except his own clothes and handful of rings he finds in his pockets. No friends. He could ask for help from the ones he Marked, he supposes. If Lettie recognized him, they would, too.

But he feels nothing for them. They were entertainment for a bored god, and nothing more. The one person who could’ve been something more, with whom the Outsider would sometimes let himself imagine sharing the simpler pleasures, the base things mortals tend to crave—

He’s on his own, is the point. He doesn’t want to ask for help.

Corvo never did.

So the Outsider won’t, either.

* * *

He starts by doing what he’s done best for so long: he waits. He listens. He learns.

The locals who frequent the tavern teach him how to palm cards and make coins disappear. Not one of them is surprised when he surpasses their skill in a matter of days. He takes to practicing at every moment. Coins roll between his knuckles and vanish up his sleeves. He shuffles decks of cards with barely a caress of the edges, then cleans his new companions out of pocket watches and penknives and small change. He makes it worth their while. He brings them gossip and good whiskey, both traded for more gossip.

They tell him about the Hatters, how even before the majority were driven here after Delilah’s coup, they’ve been a fixture of the district for years. They tell him about how the City Watch is all but useless against the gangs, how the Overseers were even worse. Everyone’s dreading the influx of new Overseers. Everyone’s heard the rumor of the huge ship that came in with more of them from around the Empire.

It doesn’t take long. The Overseers arrive days after the Outsider does, though not to begin furnishing a new outpost or to establish patrol routes.

They just start raiding.

In a single week, they haul two people out of their homes and into the backs of wagons for the crime of possessing heretical items. Both times, they attract a crowd.

It’s all anyone can talk about in the tavern tonight. The Outsider leans on the greasy bar, ale in hand, and listens.

“What were they saying?” grunts the bartender—Amos Archer, the proprietor of the tavern, a perpetually tired older man who wears an eyepatch. He’s almost as pale as the Outsider.

“Oh, Void, the usual.” This from Tev Greendale, Amos’ sole employee. He’s a slender fellow in his late twenties with a dark bronze complexion, his curly hair tucked into a large knot at the back of his head. He’s been teaching the Outsider card tricks, and has such a knack for mixing cocktails that even Amos’ grim larder turns to gold in his hands. He wants to run his own tavern someday, something he and the Outsider have discussed at length. Tev puts down his bar rag to spread his hands dramatically. “ _This is the consequence of turning your hearts from the strictures!_ That sort of thing. _The witches are diminished and the Void has changed, but its keeper still seeks to corrupt the faithful!_ Told us to report any signs of heresy. What was it— _woe be to those who hide the sins of their neighbors!_ Bullocks and tripe.”

 _They know that the Void is different,_ the Outsider thinks. _They’re trying to appear powerful to cover their own terror._ He only says, “They sound paranoid.”

“Understatement if there ever was one,” Amos mutters. “If Old Lady Sneed was a heretic, then I’m a horse’s arse. She’s the most devout woman this side of the Wrenhaven.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time they planted evidence to stir things up,” says Tev. “Happened to a cousin of mine a few years ago. Most boring bloke you could imagine, not a single heretical bone in him—or on him, for that matter— and bam. There one night, gone the next. Ask me, I think the whole Abbey’s on edge. The Entity’s got them nervous.”

The Outsider drinks his ale. He’s heard people whispering about _The Entity_. It’s Daud. It has to be Daud. He’s seen Daud’s new rune in alleyway graffiti. He wonders, not for the first time, who Daud’s been Marking. What his purpose is. In their final conversation in the Void, Daud implied the Outsider may not even remember that Daud now ruled there— _for my protection, and yours_ , he said. Did he think the Outsider will—what, come after him? “You think it’ll get worse?”

“Well,” says Tev, flourishing his bar rag, “it never gets better. So you tell me.”

“I just worry for whoever’s next,” says Amos. “If they can cart Sneed out of here, they can do it to anyone.”

The Outsider gulps the last of his ale. “We’ll see about that,” he says, and leaves before his friends can ask what he means.

The next morning, he ventures south on his morning walk and buys a pair of sleek fighting knives.

If the Overseers want to make trouble in Dunwall, then he’ll give it back to them tenfold.

That is, he will just as soon as he teaches himself how to actually use those knives. To threaten, to defend—not to kill.

He begins staying up late and getting up early to train with them. He doesn’t need a teacher; he’s watched mercenaries and soldiers and rogues dance these steps for thousands of years. He remembers the stretches they used, the drills they ran. A hundred disciplines from around the continents. All the ways they turned practice into purpose.

He thinks of Corvo the most. No one has _ever_ moved like Corvo. So light on his feet, always three moves ahead of his opponents, goading them into moving their blades exactly where he wanted. The man didn’t become that good—and _stay_ that good—without years of training.

The Outsider follows the same steps, knives braced and ready, telling himself he wasn’t wrong to look in on it for all those years: Corvo, bare-chested and sun-browned in the Tower training yard, his blade a graceful blur. Corvo, restless and sleepless in his room at the Hound Pits, wrenching through his forms, jaw clenched against the pain from the scars Coldridge left on him and in him. Corvo, hacking wildly at Delilah’s monstrous green overgrowth in Jessamine’s old quarters, his eyes burning, his face wet—

The Outsider stumbles and goes down, landing ass-first on the floorboards with an “ _Oof,_ ” his knives clattering as they follow.

Damn it all directly to the Void.

 _Why_ can he not stop thinking of the Royal Protector? Was it always this way? Or did his newfound humanity just nudge this—this _yearning_ —into sharper focus?

He doesn’t remember feeling like this in the Void. There, he was curious—fond, even. Immeasurably fond of all the ways Corvo continued to surprise him. He looked in on Corvo often, even if he didn’t make his presence known. Longing never overtook him there because seeing Corvo always soothed it.

Here, now, there’s still such an ache in his heart at the thought that he’ll never have that same familiarity with Corvo again. He still daydreams of arriving at Dunwall Tower, wondering if somehow, Emily’s Void magic could jog Corvo’s memories.

Worst of all, in the darkest hours of the night, sleepless and restless, he thinks of the times he witnessed some of Corvo’s more—intimate moments. He knows _now_ that he should have told Corvo he was looking in. And he knows now that he should not, _absolutely should not_ , wrap a hand around himself and queue up those memories. Partners coming undone under Corvo’s hands, Corvo desperate for it but never quite lost to it.

Even letting the images brush through his thoughts now, he feels familiar heat rising in his face and stirring in his groin. He tries to ignore it. He’s done that enough since he arrived here in Dunwall, and the guilt about keeping Corvo’s face in his mind when he does—it’s starting to wear on him.

Because really, there’s nothing he can do about it. Corvo won’t remember him. And the Outsider would rather eat his new knives than try to articulate his feelings to Emily, watch her try to intercede on his behalf.

He shakes his head and gets to his feet. He can do this alone. He can do all of this alone, including teaching himself to fight.

And maybe if he keeps telling himself that, he’ll come to believe it.

With a gulp of water from a glass he nicked from the bar below, he settles back into a fresh fighting stance and starts again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time on AWIBA: an underground fighting ring, corvo picks a bad time to fantasize, overseers being dicks + regretting it
> 
> meanwhile squee with me on tumblr @[sp-oops](http://sp-oops.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that feel when you’ve played too much ac syndicate, am i right 
> 
> also whoops, the new high overseer is basically whalepunk rafe adler, shoutout to any uncharted people. made some wild guesses about overseer couture, too.
> 
> narration timelines will merge in the next chap, which is also when it gets porny, i stg, hang in there with me.
> 
> thank you to the folks who kudos’d and left those lovely comments, my HP is fully restored. i rarely post serialized stuff so this is terrifying and you have made it less so!
> 
> <3

It takes half an ale, the roar of a crowd, and watching a prizefighter fall straight to the dirt to convince the Outsider that training alone with his knives was never going to make him a competent fighter.

He looks down at his ale. He’s nowhere near tipsy; this won’t be a drunken decision. What’s he got to lose?

He leans toward Tev’s ear to be heard. “How do I get in the ring?”

Tev swivels toward him, slowly. Squintingly. Not just in suspicion; the main source of light in this enormous cellar hangs high above the chalked-off dirt circle in the center of the room. It’s a little dim. Tev says, “To _fight?_ ”

“Yes, to fight.”

“ _Here?_ ” Tev’s gaping, letting himself get jostled in the motion of the tightly packed crowd. “In front of—what, all these cutthroats?”

The Outsider bites back a smile. “I don’t think they’ll just leave.”

“Who are you calling ‘cutthroat,’ Greendale?” One of the tavern regulars leans in, brandishing his mug of ale like a sword.

“Nameless here wants a turn in the ring,” says Tev, incredulous. It’s easier to hear him now—with the match over, the clamor is dying back. “Help me talk him out of it.”

“What? Why would we do that?” Another of the regulars leans in. “Look—the bookie over there, by the blackboard—that’s Cal. He’s the one you talk to.”

And twenty minutes later, the Outsider is waiting at the edge of the ring, staring down a thick-shouldered, shirtless blonde man who’s already dancing on his feet, his ham-sized fists paddleballing the air.

This is _not_ how he thought tonight would go.

When Tev invited him out, he had no idea he’d end up here: in a cool cellar reeking of ale and sweat, packed with working-class people of all kinds. This, it seems, is how people unwind when they aren’t dicing or playing cards. Cheering for and betting on their favorite fighters.

But he’ll take surprise over predictability any day.

“Are you _serious?_ ” Tev is saying in his ear, trying to be heard over the noise of the crowd—raucous again for the start of the match. “You barely look strong enough to survive a bad sneeze, let alone a one-on-one with Meat-hands Monty.”

The name makes him smile. “We’ll see.” He’s stripped his jacket and shirt, now down to his sleeveless undershirt.

“Void preserve us,” Tev says, dragging a hand down his face. “Just don’t make me carry your corpse out of here. Amos will never forgive me.”

“Tev.” The Outsider grips Tev’s shoulder, oddly touched that not one, but two people care enough about him that they’d rather he not be dead. “This is a learning experience. I’m trying to learn.”

“Next time you get a notion about a ‘learning experience,’ just ask _me_. We can spar in the alley behind the pub, like normal reprobates!”

“You’d pull your punches. I need to train against someone who won’t.”

“For _what_ ,” wails Tev, arms wide, “are we at war and I’m the last to find out?”

The referee hammers on the bell, and the crowd backs away from the chalked edge of the circle.

All the cheering and hollering turns into little more than background noise as the Outsider focuses. Meat-hands Monty is circling him, bobbing, trying to get the Outsider to move with him. The Outsider stays put, fists up, trying to remember everything he ever learned in the history of hand-to-hand—wait.

 _I don’t need all of human history._ _I just need Corvo._

Shoulders loose, he remembers, and unclenches his muscles there. Knees bent, ready to move. Hands relaxed, but up—high enough to block, low enough to avoid getting hit in the face with them. The opponent’s shoulders will telegraph their next move. Let them wear themselves out on the offense before attacking—

Monty lunges. The Outsider springs out of the way; Monty sails past him and gets a shove from the crowd to recover. Pissed now, Monty strides straight toward him, ensuring the Outsider can’t just duck. Here come the punches. The Outsider blocks one, sweeping Monty’s wrist aside, but then the other fist is sailing at his face—

The ground rushes up at him and he slaps gracelessly against it, jarring his elbows. The crowd is starting to chant: _Meat! Hands! Meat! Hands!_

The Outsider struggles up to his hands and knees, panting as dust rises. His face is throbbing, his elbows smarting, his heart hammering, but—he’s practically laughing. He feels _alive_. How many times has Corvo done this? Gotten himself up after getting knocked over, furious and spitting blood? How many times—

The referee hammers on the bell again, and the crowd’s chants dissolve into cheers. _Right,_ the Outsider remembers dimly, _if you’re on the ground for more than a few seconds, the match ends._

Monty’s striding toward him. For one wild moment, the Outsider thinks the man’s ignoring the bell. But Monty just grins, broad and gap-toothed, and holds out one of his huge hands. The Outsider takes it, and Monty easily hauls him to his feet. “Lasted longer than other newcomers,” says Monty, whapping him between the shoulder blades so hard that his knees almost buckle. “Better luck next time.”

Tev and the crowd of tavern-goers welcome him back, flabbergasted but thrilled, ushering him away from the densest crush of people. The Outsider can’t stop smiling. Someone ruffles his hair; someone else hands him a fresh pint, cold froth slopping over his hand. He’s fairly certain he’s never going to get the dirt stains out of his clothes, and he can’t find it in him to care. He sits hard onto a stack of crates and drinks.

“Well,” says Tev, arms folded, “if you wanted the Hatters to notice you, you’ve succeeded.”

The Outsider lowers his ale, gulping. “The Hatters?”

“Who d’you think runs the place?” Tev nods toward the edges of the room, where the Outsider takes note of a few people not carousing, not gambling—just leaning. Watching. Hatted, but not as ostentatiously as others the Outsider’s seen.

“So this whole thing—the bets—none of it’s legal.”

“Oh, not at all. But bless your innocent soul for thinking legality matters.”

The Outsider grins into his ale. “No, I only meant—what’s keeping the City Watch from shutting it down?”

“The Hatters pay them to look the other way. It’s so the gang stays in our good graces, no mistake. They use the place for recruiting, too. Trying to find toughs they can bribe.”

The Outsider drinks. It’s something else to consider in his ever-expanding understanding of the district.

“Anyway, that shiner’s gonna be brutal.” Tev peers at the Outsider’s right eye. “Let’s go back to the bar and get some ice on it.”

“Right. Great.” He and Tev trade: he hands over his ale, Tev hands back his shirt and jacket. “Can we come back next week?”

“I see Monty’s knocked the rest of your sense loose,” grumbles Tev. “I’ll think on it.”

* * *

They do go back the next week, and every week. His black eye fades. He gets quicker, gets stronger. He wraps his hands, because by the Void, he doesn’t want to lose time recovering if he breaks a knuckle. He makes more friends there—not with the Hatters, instantly suspicious of anyone not their own, but the other regulars who show up. Some of the fighters, too. They’re quick to give him advice. He collects friends and news and trust.

The other nights, he begins slipping out of his apartment to learn how to cross the rooftops.

He trains himself to scale fire escapes and find sure footing on loose shingles. How to move quickly without making a sound. He sits perched above Hatter deals, learning names and faces. He waits while lovers meet, tucking themselves as deeply into shadow as he is. He connects the dots between who’s beholden to whom, where money comes from and where it goes, illegal deals and semi-legal deals and everything in between.

It’s necessary work. As many secrets as he already knows, the world’s continued turning since he left the Void. Things will have changed. He recognizes plenty of names and faces and potential fates, but he doesn’t know them in _this_ context, here and now. He’s got to keep up.

There’s no limit on his access to coin, but knowledge is the most valuable currency he has. If he wants to help Emily and Corvo pull Dunwall out of its own mire, he’s got to understand its grimmest parts. Only then can he learn how to dismantle them.

But there are pieces out of alignment, mysteries he can’t yet solve, chiefly: why haven’t the new Overseers established an outpost in this district?

They’re carrying out raids, carting off heretics, yes. But they come from other outposts in other districts. Is it fear of the Hatters? Surely the Overseers aren’t intimidated by a few petty criminals—but the City Watch tends to steer clear of the area, too.

It’s during one of the Outsider’s late-night excursions across the rooftops, perched above three Hatters playing a dice game, that pieces of this vast puzzle begin coming together.

One Hatter nudges another and says, “Look alive.”

Someone’s coming down the alley toward them, a slow stride full of purpose. As one, the Hatters lurch to their feet, the dice forgotten. The Outsider squints. The newcomer wears a hooded cloak, his face impossible to see. When he’s close, one of the Hatters says, “Evenin’, brother.”

And the newcomer says, “Do not use that title here.”

It’s an Overseer, then.

The Outsider barely breathes. He leans over the edge of the roof to see them better. “What do you have for me?” asks the Overseer.

“ _Wave’s Wander_ docks in the morning,” says the Hatter. “Big fishing boat—all the crew lives around here. Whole block’s bound to be home by this time tomorrow.”

“Where, exactly?”

“West Reginald Row. Try number seven—the wife makes little trinkets and tinctures. An easy mark.”

The Overseer pulls an envelope out of his cloak. “This is half,” he says. “If your information is good, I’ll deliver the rest after the job is done.”

The lead Hatter takes the envelope and offers a twitchy salute. “Pleasure doin’ business.”

The Outsider sits back on his heels, wishing he felt more surprised. No wonder the Overseers don’t need an outpost in this district. The Hatters scout heretical targets _for_ them.

Sundown the next day finds him suiting up. No bone charms tonight, though he’s been carving himself a small assortment. Instead, he’ll rely on a dark kerchief that covers his face. A cowl that seems like it might actually stay up when he fights, if his practice sessions have anything to say about it. His knives. He wears plain, unremarkable dark clothes, just like every night he spends scouting.

Though, if he’s honest, it’s not much different from what he wears during the day. He’s built a modest, functional wardrobe, topped it off with a few close-cut jackets and fitted waistcoats, plain but tailored. He prefers deep blues and greens, shades of black and gray. It’s not unlike what he’s always worn, though with more of the angular, off-center details that seem the fashion these days.

Studying himself in the grubby mirror in the washroom, dressed head to toe in black, face covered, he looks—well, a little absurd. But also ready.

If only he could feel as ready as he looks. He lifts a hand and watches it shake. Flexes it. Clenches it. “They won’t know you,” he reminds his reflection. “Even if they see your face.”

It’s not much comfort. He heads for the back window, throws the latch, and climbs into the night.

He tucks himself beside a chimney two stories above number seven, West Reginald Row. There aren’t many people out and about; every light in every window casts a warm glow into the dark. Everyone’s home, just as the Hatter predicted. Which means everyone will hear it when the Overseers start a fracas.

It seems they want an audience.

The Outsider waits for nearly an hour before three Overseers turn onto the street, one driving a cart, masks on and cudgels swinging from their belts.

 _Here we go_. The Outsider gets ready to move, letting blood flow back into his stiff muscles.

As the Overseers get closer, one of them checks their coat pocket, and even from this distance, the Outsider can see the faint blue glow from within. A bone charm—no doubt for planted evidence.

He gets a knife in one hand and adjusts his kerchief and cowl with the other. His pulse is drumming, his breath short; sweat is starting to prickle the back of his neck.

In a cold panic, he thinks, _I’m not ready_.

But then—Corvo never was. Emily never was. How many times have they plunged into chaos because they had no other choice? Because _he_ gave them the power to?

The Outsider draws a deep, slow breath. _Corvo wouldn’t hesitate,_ he thinks.

He plunges into the street below.

*

*

*

“Corvo Attano.” Ambrose Gideon makes each syllable its own sentence. His smile is too big. His voice is too loud. “The Royal Protector.”

“Ambrose Gideon.” Corvo tries not to say it through gritted teeth. “The new High Overseer.”

“I heard a witch locked you in a statue for a few months. What was that like?”

Corvo glances at Emily; she and her advisors are greeting the rest of the Overseer entourage. It seems Corvo’s trapped with Gideon for the moment. He tells Gideon the truth: “I don’t remember it.”

“Lucky you, then.” Gideon claps his shoulder. “Wouldn’t have put it past Delilah to fill your head with heretical visions and nonsense.”

Corvo thinks of ancient black eyes searching his own. Teasing smirks from a sensual mouth, and Void help him, everything he’s ever wished that mouth would do instead of smirk. He thinks of the locked box at the bottom of his wardrobe, rattling with bone charms and the tools it takes to carve them. He thinks of cool nights, distant stars, running leaps into oblivion before calling blue flame from the Mark to snatch him out of the air and onto a faraway rooftop.

It didn’t take Delilah Copperspoon to put those heretical visions and nonsense in his head.

“Fortunately not,” says Corvo.

Gideon chuckles. “Glad to hear that.”

Already, Corvo cannot _stand_ him. Gideon’s just another aristocrat, a professional glad-hander draped in Abbey red. Before him, High Overseer Yul Khulan deliberately avoided the crimson overcoat of rank that noted weasel Thaddeus Campbell favored. Gideon, on the other hand, seems to think Campbell is an inspiration.

He’s got that polished aristocratic look, too. His ivory skin is flawless, his russet-brown hair slicked back with so much pomade, Corvo wonders if the man needs to lean away from open flames. He’s young for the job—forty-four, according to the profile they received. A favorite among the nobility. A stern hand with heretics.

He and the other Overseers are on the schedule this afternoon for two entire hours. Two hours to lay out their plans for the city and discuss about how they can work with the crown.

Two hours for them to notice how odd it is that the Empress keeps her gloves on at all times. Two hours for parts of Emily’s story to not quite check out, for them to _smell heresy_ , the way some of them claim they can.

It’s going to feel like days.

Emily must think so, too; the instant her back is turned to everyone but Corvo, she quirks an eyebrow—a clear, _I can’t believe we have to play nice with snakes._

They gather in an upper room in the Tower, one of the more impressive spaces for conferences and meetings. A portion of the walls and ceiling are constructed of reinforced glass and iron, curved like a greenhouse roof to let in the light. It looks out on a spectacular view of the Wrenhaven and the western end of Dunwall.

“We got here just in time,” says Gideon as they all take their seats. It’s clear he’s accustomed to people hanging onto his every word. “The corruption in Dunwall’s streets is reaching a boiling point.”

Emily smiles indulgently. “Respectfully, High Overseer, I have to disagree. Our people adhere to the strictures. Yul Khulan devoted his life to spreading their word.”

Gideon grins back at her, slick as his hair. “If your people were half so versed in the strictures as _Yul Khulan_ thought—” He says the name like it’s a stain he’s discovered on his overcoat. “—they wouldn’t have fallen so quickly to Delilah.”

“I think you’ll find her witches were to blame for that.” Emily’s projecting a serenity that takes neither offense nor bullshit. Corvo’s impressed; he certainly didn’t teach her that. She’s done nothing but surprise him since the coup. He’s never been more proud. “They can compel people to do terrible things. Or they could, before we chased them away.”

“I don’t think so, Empress.” Gideon steeples his fingers, still smiling at her overtop them. “The witches may be dormant, but they’re far from gone.”

“My spymaster tells me differently.” Emily glances at Corvo and nods, inviting him to comment.

Which he does. “The Empress is right. My contacts haven’t seen signs of witch activity since—”

“Your contacts?” Gideon’s brows have risen as though Corvo’s told a marvelous joke. He glances at the other Overseers, inviting them to join in his mirth. “Lord Protector, _your contacts_ missed the witches’ rise in the first place. They couldn’t even tell you Delilah was coming from Serkonos to steal the throne. If your contacts had caught on quicker, we wouldn’t be stuck trying to rebuild the entire Dunwall Abbey from scratch.” He spreads his hands, elbows on the table. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t trust the intelligence they’re bringing you now.”

It’s like being socked in the jaw. Corvo’s been grappling with his failure to predict Delilah stepping out of that palanquin since the moment it happened. And Gideon just held that failure up to broad daylight so everyone could take a good, long look.

Emily clears her throat, ready to begin damage control, but Corvo beats her to it.

“You’re right, of course.” He makes himself say it, and makes himself sound damn polite about it. Adds a conceding dip of his chin, too. He hasn’t spent a lifetime at court to let one bastard in a sea of bastards goad him into saying something stupid now.

And if the attention’s on him, it’s not on Emily’s gloved hands.

“You’re lucky you have me,” says Gideon, smug. “I promise you this, Empress: with the Overseers under my command, heresy will never see the light of day in Dunwall again.”

Oh, it is _tempting_ to laugh in his face. Gideon has no idea of the heresy lurking just beneath Emily’s gloves. Beneath Corvo’s, if he’d gotten here months ago. What would he do if he found out who visits Corvo some nights?

Well. Who visit _ed_ Corvo some nights. A fact in the past tense, now.

It was always the restless nights, too late or too cold to go out on the rooftops. Corvo would pick up his sword and work through his forms, hoping to exhaust himself enough to sleep. The Outsider seemed to find a great deal of hilarity in interrupting Corvo during these exercises. He’d appear draped on the sofa or perched on Corvo’s desk, some wry observation halfway off His tongue, the Void clouded around Him.

Sometimes Corvo would keep working (especially the first few years, irritated at the interruption). Usually, he folded up his sword, poured himself a whiskey, and sat back in his desk chair. And they’d talk.

The visits were never long (at least, never as long as Corvo would have liked), but the Outsider always managed to say something, or intuit something, that helped every jumbled thought in Corvo’s restless mind fall neatly into place. Corvo came to look forward to their conversations. Or at least, he told himself, he looked forward to the way he always slept so soundly afterward.

Fifteen years of visits like that. A strange friendship, a steady comfort. Whatever Ambrose Gideon and the Abbey would call it—profane, blasphemous—it was never anything so heretical.

Though by the Void, Corvo’s relieved they’ll never find out how much more heretical he was willing to become.

He’s lost count of the times he’s taken himself in hand, imagining those visits going differently. The Outsider knocking the sword from his grip and backing him into the desk, a pale hand on his chest pressing him flat to the surface. Cold fingers (and they _must_ be cold; icy gales account for half the noise in the Void) unbuckling his belt, tearing his trousers open, yanking them roughly down his thighs. Narrow hips shoved between his knees. Black eyes locked on his, dark and deep enough to fall into. That smirking mouth, parted and slack with lust.

Corvo is confident that the Outsider is oblivious to those desires. The god’s told Corvo He can’t actually read minds—just intentions. Present action and future possibilities.

But it doesn’t matter. The Outsider hasn’t visited Corvo since before the coup. He probably won’t again.

With Ambrose Gideon proving himself such a tenacious bastard, it’s probably for the best.

If only _for the best_ didn’t always mean having to let something go.

*

*

*

The Outsider limps back to his apartment with a half-sprained wrist and a bloody nose, his knuckles bruised and split, his knives wet with far more blood than he meant to spill.

The point was never to kill anyone, and he didn’t. He just meant to threaten. To block incoming weapons.

The Overseers didn’t share his restraint.

He collapses onto the threadbare sofa that came with the apartment, pulling his bloodstained kerchief from his face. He’s going to have to patch himself up, but he—damn it, he doesn’t have enough clean gauze, or anything to disinfect his split knuckles. He can’t tell if his nose is broken. He certainly doesn’t have the steadiness he’s going to need in his hands.

He needs help.

A desperate, pathetic part of him thinks, _Just go to Dunwall Tower._ Emily would fetch her physician. Corvo would—

_Corvo wouldn’t know you, you fool._

He cleans the blood off of his face the best he can, then takes the back stairs down to the tavern. It’ll be closing up, but Amos will still be there, and maybe Tev, too.

He’s about to open the side entrance in the apartment’s lobby (really, more of a dingy stairwell) when he hears an Overseer snap, “Don’t test us, old man!”

“You’re the one who told me your attacker was wearing a kerchief,” says Amos. “How am I supposed to know what they look like if _you_ don’t?”

The Outsider flattens himself against the wall and listens.

“Just keep a damn eye out,” says the Overseer. “The attacker took down two of my best men. They’ll be in recovery for a week. You see anything—you hear _anything_ —you come to us.”

“Can’t you see we’re trying to close up shop?” asks Tev with theatric boredom. “We’ll tell you. Now _get_.”

The Outsider waits until he hears the front door squeak shut, adds a few moments, then opens the side door with hands that haven’t stopped shaking.

“We’re closing,” Amos says without looking up; he’s scrubbing down the filthy bar with a filthy rag.

“Just let me buy a bottle,” the Outsider rasps.

Tev sees him first. They bring him to the bar and put a neat whiskey in his hand. When the Outsider lifts a brow at the lack of mixers and garnishes, Tev just says, “Never underestimate the value of straight whiskey, mate.”

Amos produces a rag that actually looks clean; Tev soaks it in clear grain alcohol and starts cleaning the scrapes on the Outsider’s free hand, careful with the sprain. They declare his nose unbroken and, with another clean-ish rag, help him mop the rest of the blood off his face. He takes a long drink of the whiskey and finds that the burn scours the sharp edges off his nerves.

“It was you,” says Amos, watching him. “The kerchief attacker.”

“You can’t prove that,” says the Outsider, but it’s weary, delivered with a smile. He lifts his empty glass, and Amos pours another splash.

“What were you _thinking_ ,” says Tev, now working on the Outsider’s other hand. “You can’t go after them!”

“Why not?” His shakes are calming, the alcohol now a pleasant warmth. “Someone should. They’re terrorizing the neighborhood.”

Gently, Amos starts, “If you get caught—”

“I won’t get caught.”

Amos holds up his hands. “I can’t stop you. You’re a grown man.”

 _He has no idea_.

“Just don’t get yourself carted off to a heretic’s cell,” says Tev. “I’m making good coin betting against you in the ring.”

“And do it further away from my bar,” says Amos. “Times are troubled enough without Overseers knocking.”

“That, I can do.” And he will. If he learns which outposts the Overseers are coming from, he can intercept them earlier. The Outsider smiles at them. He’s shaken up, he’s beaten up, but—at least a few Overseers are running scared. A thrill chases through his veins alongside the alcohol.

He doesn’t mind that at all.

When he gets back to his apartment, he scrubs the blood from his kerchief. He bandages his hands and binds his wrist with another set of clean rags Amos lent him. He sleeps like the dead.

* * *

He learns. He listens. He makes more friends.

He keeps going back to the fighting ring, careful of his tender wrist for the next few weeks. His opponents still gladly hand him his own ass, almost as thorough a thrashing as what he got from the Overseers. But he’s improving, slowly and surely, thanks to the eager advice from the other fighters. Soon, it takes him longer to lose. Then his fights turn into draws. Then the draws turn into wins.

Regulars at the tavern (then from the ring, and after that, from around the district) start coming to him for advice when they have problems they can’t solve. That’s how he starts acquiring contacts, of a sort. A network. He helps them all, and in return, only asks that they bring him news, if they can.

The Outsider's careful not to pressure them. He’s seen tyrants and mobsters and lords dangle their help over the heads of the less fortunate just to watch them dance. He vows never to become that.

He helps even when they don’t ask. He leaves bundles of coin where it’s needed most: a shopkeep who can’t make rent. A shelter that takes in the homeless and displaced. Amos’ tavern, since Amos is desperate to retire but can’t find a buyer who wants the place. A dozen different people and businesses, each vital to the area in their own way, who could feel steadier with just a little more capital.

Eight weeks from the day he moved into the district, the Outsider and a handful of residents pool their funds to fix the broken streetlamps where darkness lets Hatters slink about in the shadows. With the lamps working again, the Hatters scatter like roaches, disoriented without their trusty meeting places. The next week, with the lanes and alleys more quiet, a group of neighborhood do-gooders turn up to clean the garbage out of the square.

In twelve weeks, the Outsider counts four _HELP WANTED!_ signs in shop windows on his morning walk. They’re gone by the next morning, and in the coming weeks, more spring up.

One night, the regulars in the pub grumble about landlords trying to raise rent, since the area’s on the up-and-up.

Hours later, the Outsider ties his kerchief around his face, tucks his knives into his belt, and pays a visit to the landlords he knows.

Rent doesn’t budge.

In fourteen weeks, the Outsider’s holding the deeds to the tavern, co-signed with Tev, a settlement that gives Amos more than enough to retire on.

In sixteen weeks, the Outsider’s got the building.

He thinks he should probably choose a name for himself, but he can’t begin to think what it might be. And anyway, he’s got secrets on the landlord and lawyer both—that he leverages. When he makes his mark on the transfer documents, it’s an illegible scribble that means nothing, and they’ve got no choice but to let him do it.

Despite everything, the Overseers keep raiding.

He stops as many as he can, dropping out of the dark to face them with his knives flashing, his cowl up and kerchief on. His nights in the fighting ring and running the rooftops have made him stronger—and so much more confident. He always gives them the choice: “Fight me or run.”

Lately, they just run.

* * *

In the midst of the tavern’s transformation into an up-to-code pub with new management (that is, Tev), a man sits down at the bar near the Outsider.

The place is still open during the renovations. The Outsider's going over his notes from his chat with Tev about new tiles for the floor (white, hexagonal, ceramic, ethically sourced from one of the safest mines in Gristol). He’ll put the order in this afternoon.

But then the man beside him growls something rude about his drink, and the Outsider looks up sharply.

It’s Tom Rottswold. A retired Tyvian merchant the Outsider once gave his Mark to and then took it away, disappointed at how the man’s devotion became fanatical.

But if Tom recognizes him—once Marked, once obsessed, now neither—wild hope flares up in his chest. Maybe— _maybe—_

Tom catches him looking. Barks, “The Void are you staring at, light-eyes?” And takes his drink to another table.

The hope snuffs out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time on AWIBA: rooftop sightings, our heroes take matters into their own hands (>_>), daud is a humongous troll, chekhov’s void mark


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> our E rating’s finally here, let’s give it a hand
> 
> [god im sorry]
> 
> please do holler if you think those tags i've added aren't enough—particularly those last ones. it comes with a decent amount of schmoop and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, but it's still in that realm, so. yep!
> 
> also: we’ve seen dunwall tower at the end of d2: mighty hunks. corvo’s gigantic suite—that’s. that’s gotta be jessamine’s old chambers. right? that’s what i’m assuming and referencing here when i make that guess about how he got them. because really, how else. unless there’s lore i missed. whatever!
> 
> thanks again for all the lovely comments and kudos, you're heroes and scholars, one and all!
> 
> <3

A few nights a week, Corvo slips out of his room, scales down the Tower walls, and sets off across the rooftops. It’s harder without the ability to blink from ledge to ledge, or catch himself when eaves crumble beneath his boots, but he’s done it before.

Granted, “before” was decades ago, back when he was new to Dunwall, sleepless and homesick. Then, he did it to familiarize himself with the streets and the people who ran them. Learn the places he could drink a pint in peace. Stop in at the not-so-secret fighting ring north of the Clocktower to keep his skills sharp.

Now he does it because he doesn’t know how else to settle his heart.

And anyway, the Hatters are still making trouble. Ambrose Gideon’s Overseers are raiding and terrorizing in the name of the strictures, worse by the day; Corvo’s put a stop to a raid himself, one he stumbled across almost accidentally. There’s work to be done. People to help. Forget state dinners and diplomatic affairs; Emily’s the one with a new knack for that, her Empire well in hand again. Out here in the shadows—this is the kind of work Corvo knows how to do.

 _The only work I_ can _do,_ he thinks bitterly. It’s a wonder he’s allowed to keep his monikers at all. What exactly has he managed to protect in the moments when his charges actually needed him? How did his spies miss a conspiracy that took root in every single district of his own hometown?

If he ever dared voice that kind of doubt, Emily would tell him that his decades of service _without_ coups and assassinations are a testament to his abilities.

It doesn’t matter. Those abilities couldn’t stop Delilah or Daud.

And he doesn’t know what to think of Daud anymore. Emily told Corvo what she learned from Billie Lurk—that Daud’s the reason Emily is still Emily, and not a living vessel for Delilah’s spirit. Corvo hasn’t heard from Daud in years. The man must have disappeared into his own guilt.

Corvo’s doing his damnedest not to do the same.

So here he is, settling his heart and his mind far away from the Tower, looking for trouble to interrupt. Without the Mark, there’s real danger, a real _challenge_ to it, for the first time in years. It’s exhilarating.

Tonight, the full moon silvers every rooftop in Dunwall. Corvo follows the sounds of the street, deals and trysts and turbulence. He tracks a band of Hatters just outside the Estate District. He takes note of more strange graffiti—the eerie symbol he first noticed months back and has his contacts investigating. All they’ve found is that the Overseers consider it profane, and they’re carting off anyone they catch using it. Notably, they took someone in who had it tattooed on the back of their left hand.

It’s disconcerting, because…well. The symbol isn’t so far off from the Outsider’s. Two sharp-tipped curves, a jagged bolt, a series of spots. More often than not, Corvo sees words near the design, too: _THE ENTITY IS WATCHING!_

Everyone’s always watching. When the Outsider wasn’t walking among us, He was watching. The Crown Killer was watching. Now whatever the fuck the Entity is.

Corvo puts it out of his mind. It’s probably just a new gang leader. Maybe one who deals in the occult. Void knows the Hatters go through leaders like cheap handkerchiefs.

He pauses on a rooftop with a clear, striking view of the Clocktower. He hasn’t climbed it since he lost the Mark. Not enough handholds, though his fingers itch to try anyway. That kind of reckless desire to prove himself should’ve left him long ago. But knowing there’s someone who can _see_ , someone who, against his better judgment, he still _wants_ noticing him…

Corvo crouches down, flexing his left hand—still hidden in its leather wrap, when he goes out at night like this. He hasn’t shaken the habit. Doesn’t want to. And anyway, the extra grip helps when clambering over low walls and hanging off drainpipes. Now, he braces it on shingles damp with yesterday’s rain. He mutters to the breeze, “Would you—” He loses his nerve, gulps. Tries again. “—would you appear if I asked you to?”

There’s no answer.

Void. Of course there isn’t. He scratches the back of his neck, feeling five kinds of foolish.

 _He doesn’t like it when His Marked get greedy_ , he told Emily. Sometimes he hates being right.

Movement catches his eye; he goes stock-still.

Blocks away, another distant figure is climbing onto the rooftops, silhouetted in moonlight. He (Corvo’s fairly certain they’re a _he_ ) plants his hands on his knees, apparently panting. Then he straightens up and stretches. His cowl turns toward Corvo, and—

The man freezes. He’s seen Corvo, and he’s staring.

Corvo gets to his feet, bewildered. In all his years up here on the roofs, he’s been the only one. Who else—how—?

It doesn’t matter who or how. Corvo lifts his jaw and hopes that the moonlight catches the sharp angles of his mask.

If the distant figure sees the mask, it doesn’t bother him—at least, not that Corvo can tell. The moonlight behind the man shadows his face.

But Corvo doesn’t flinch; he belongs up here. This is _his_ domain.

After an impossibly long moment, the other man turns away. He drops out of sight, no doubt onto a fire escape or a ventilator cover.

“And stay out,” Corvo mutters.

There’s room for just one prowler up here. Corvo doesn’t want to share.

But he _would_ , given the right partner. Someone he’d trust to watch his back while he watched theirs. It’s pointless to consider; he doesn’t wholly trust anyone except Emily.

Also the god currently set on ignoring him.

He wonders what _that_ would be like—working with the Outsider on nights like this. Corvo certainly could’ve used the backup in the Overseer raid he stopped a few weeks ago. With the Outsider’s Void magic scaring those bastards off, it would have taken moments, not minutes.

Or perhaps the Outsider wouldn’t need magic. Perhaps He’d follow Corvo’s lead, and act…well. Human. Corvo imagines them nodding to each other from across a rooftop before tumbling onto unaware Overseers below. Regrouping mid-fight, shoulder to shoulder, back to back, eyes focused and blades ready.

Can the Outsider even use a sword? Would He deign to fight with something so clumsy, so fallible? Corvo thinks of the Outsider’s elegant, expressive hands, circled around the grip of a blade. Knuckles arched, thumb flat. A skilled spin of the hilt for a better grip—

 _Don’t you dare,_ he thinks, clenching his jaw. This is dangerous territory. Thinking about the Outsider always is. Because if he keeps thinking about those hands, he’s going to think about what _else_ they could be wrapped around. Other things at which He might be surprisingly proficient. And that— _that_ —

Corvo realizes with a start that he’s half-hard.

That won’t do. He’s got to think of other things—like how the streets are quiet tonight. No civilians seem in need of his help.

He turns and heads for home.

Inside his room, he doesn’t bother lighting a lamp. His coat lands on the chair; his weapons belt hits the desk. He braces his hands there, drawing deep breaths.

He is not going to do this. He isn’t going to think of that smirking mouth, or tousled dark hair in his hands, soft as silk. He _will not_ think of the slender column of the Outsider’s throat, taut with need—

“Fuck,” he mutters, hands curling into fists. He’s entirely hard now, straining against his trousers. 

Maybe this would be easier to resist if it wasn’t so long since he took someone to bed. He’s only had a handful of partners since Jessamine, companions just as content as he was to part ways in the morning. He’d seek them out more often, he thinks, if everyone in Gristol didn’t know him. Or if it were easier to find people who were only interested in a night or two, instead of saving him from his bachelorhood.

When it did happen, it was never quite as satisfying as he hoped. He enjoyed himself, of course he did—genuinely needed those nights, sometimes. But he always left wishing for more.

He just…he can’t bring himself to ask for what he truly wants. However much his lovers enjoyed their nights together, there was always an unspoken gulf between him and them—Corvo technically one of the most powerful people in the Empire, and his partners…not. They were cautious; they never asked for too much or pushed too far, some painfully aware of Corvo’s influence. (As if he’d ever leverage it against them—but he knows better than anyone that trust isn’t something you earn in a night.) _Harder_ , he once tried asking, but his partner had taken it to mean _faster_ , and Corvo was too spineless to correct him. _I don’t mind if you pull_ , he once told a woman whose hands tightened in his hair, and she tugged, but half-heartedly.

 _The Outsider would give you what you want_ , he thinks, and heat rolls through him. _He knows you. He knows you in a way almost no one ever—_

“ _Fuck_ ,” he mutters again.

He locks himself in the washroom.

He plucks his vest open, unbuckles his belt. Right hand on the edge of the sink as he palms himself with his left, and—

He gasps in relief, pleasure surging up under his fingers, unspooling fast and hot in the pit of his stomach. He loosens his grip, tries to keep it slow, draw this out, because damn it—if he’s going to do this after all, then he’s damn well going to enjoy it.

He brings up a familiar fantasy, one that starts with him stumbling home from a back-alley fight, bleeding and weary. Cool fingers brushing against wounds before stitching them shut with tendrils of Void magic. _Corvo_. His own name a husky murmur pressed gently against his mouth. Then his wounds. Then lower. _My dear Corvo_. _So brave._

He switches tacks, embarrassed—that’s a dream for another time—and instead imagines cold hands vised around his wrists, bruising-tight and inescapable, powerful snaps of those slender hips, giving him exactly what he wants before he can think to ask for it. _Let go_ , the Outsider would tell him. _I know what you need._

And what he needs is to get so caught up in it that he can’t think of anything else. To take so much, so hard, that just for a moment, everything else falls away. He wants to trust someone else to take care of it—of _him_. To take this one thing off his shoulders. To look up at his partner and know that they, too, are getting everything they want from him.

And Void, how would the Outsider look, if He found just as much pleasure in it as Corvo? Arousal hums through Corvo as he pictures it—pale chest heaving, dark hair trembling, black eyes wide and staring. Riveted to the sight of Corvo’s scars instead of turning away from them, tracing reverent fingertips along their paths.

Corvo’s learned in the years since Coldridge that partners think one or two scars are mysterious, even arousing. But the trenches and ridges Corvo bears across his back and shoulders, down his chest and sides and thighs, ragged and broken—if the lights are bright enough, those scars frighten people. Make them think twice about bedding him, because what kind of man has scars like that?

The Outsider wouldn’t turn away. He’d accept—He’d _want_ —He could probably recall the origin of every one. Kiss Corvo’s self-consciousness away. Keep him anchored firmly in the moment. _Stay with me, Corvo,_ He’d say, and He’d keep him there.

Void, what would the Outsider want for Himself? Corvo thinks of going to his knees. A delicious ache in his jaw. Hands in his hair to keep him there. Whatever He wanted.

Corvo tightens his grip, rolls his hips to meet his hand on every downstroke. _Outsider_. He moans it in his mind. Thinks of being filled. Used. Wanted and treasured and—fuck, it’s been so long since someone just _held him_ , he needs—fuck. _Please. Please, yes._

He comes gasping, back hunched, head bowed and heart hammering, his right hand white-knuckled on the sink edge. “ _Fuck_ ,” he groans, letting the heat of it wrench through him with every pulse of his hips.

In the comedown, he wonders again if the Outsider knows how he feels.

No, the Outsider can’t read minds, but…maybe that’s a bullshit line He’s given to plenty of His Marked. Maybe _this_ is why the Outsider’s avoiding him.

But the Outsider has never lied to him. And Void knows this isn’t the first time Corvo’s thought of the Outsider this way. Isn’t the tenth.

So what is it, then?

What in the Void is it?

He cleans himself up and goes back into his room. He’s downsized since Emily took the throne again—at her suggestion, and to his relief. _I never should’ve insisted you take mother’s chambers_ , she told him after the coup, shamefaced. _I was too young to understand it would make healing harder, not easier._

So she moved into the Tower’s grand suite, and Corvo transferred to a smaller, unoccupied space with a view of the harbor and Kaldwin’s Bridge. It suits him far better. Now, his room looks a lot like Emily’s old quarters, without a secret safe room to use whenever a deranged witch stages a coup. Instead there’s the tidy washroom he’s just come from.

He braces his hands on the desk chair, head bowed. Deep breath. Void, he’s got to stop this. He’s got to come up with better fantasies, ones that don’t involve untouchable, reticent deities who are completely and utterly done with him. “Fuck,” he says once more, for good measure.

From the sofa, someone says, “Evening, Corvo.”

Corvo’s sword is already unfurled, but he falters when he sees—wait, _what_ —that it’s _Daud._

The man looks younger, easier, puffing on a stogie, the scar over his eye stark in the moonlight. The Void shimmers around him. When Daud’s eyes flicker up to Corvo’s, they’re black as ravens, the glowing end of his cigar a twin echo in their depths.

Shame crowds up Corvo’s throat; there’s no room left for surprise. He wants to ask— _demand_ —how long Daud’s been sitting there. But he knows the answer. Damn it, he knows. Corvo says, cold, “Should’ve known you can only get it up if you get to watch.”

Daud laughs, smooth as velvet. Cigar smoke curls lazily around the flickering Void fragments, drifting toward Corvo.

Corvo can smell it. Craves a taste, actually. He gave it up years ago. He says, “How are you here like this?”

“The Void asked if I wanted the job.” Daud drapes an arm over the back of the sofa. “I said yes.”

Corvo’s hands twitch, thinking of the Outsider in nearly that same pose. But where the Outsider’s thighs always stood far apart, Daud’s got one ankle crossed over the top of his knee. Corvo folds up his blade and tosses it back to the desk, then grips the chair again, grounding himself. He grits, “And how’s the Outsider feel about having to share.”

“He doesn’t mind.” Another puff. “He’s not in it.”

Confusion and surprise turn a circle in Corvo’s chest. “Then where is He?”

Daud shrugs.

The chair creaks under the tension in Corvo’s hands. “So being a cryptic jackass is one of the job requirements, after all.”

“I’m not here to talk about my predecessor.”

 _Predecessor._ “You’re probably not here to smoke, either, but you’re doing it anyway.”

Daud’s smirk is infuriating.

Corvo tries to breathe. Slowly. He needs to back off if he wants answers. “I guess I should thank you,” he says. “Emily told me what you did for her, years ago. How you saved her. I—I didn’t know. I wish I had.”

“I caused you enough pain. Wasn’t about to turn up on the Tower doorstep to remind you of it.”

Corvo glances pointedly around the room. “But you’re here now. What do you want?”

“Delilah took the Outsider’s Mark from you,” he says. “I can’t give that one back, but I can offer you mine.” He turns his palm up. A rune glows above it, flared as ember-bright as the cigar: a lightning edge, two spiked curves beneath it, an arc of spots.

Corvo thinks, _The Entity is watching._

Apparently in more ways than one. Void.

At any rate, it seems he can take his spies off the case.

“Same power as before,” says Daud, “but you draw it through me.”

It’s so damn tempting that Corvo’s heartbeat quickens.

“I remember, Corvo.” Daud twists his fingers and the Mark swivels, too, a slow turn. “How good it felt to wield that power. How _alive_ it makes you feel. And you must fear that you can’t protect your daughter without it. Say yes, and it’s yours again. That easy.” 

That easy.

Corvo wants it so badly he can practically taste the night air in his mouth, blinking through Dunwall at just a twitch of his fingertips. Always, the Outsider watching.

But the Mark was useless against Delilah. And being branded this way, not as the Outsider’s, but as _Daud’s_ —

“No,” says Corvo.

Daud’s dark eyes narrow. “I won’t offer it again. No matter how you beg.”

“I don’t beg.” He doesn’t. Coldridge taught him that.

Daud closes his fist; the rune disappears. His smirk is back. “If you say so.”

He _does._ He just did. “Daud.”

“Yes?”

Corvo meets those Void-black eyes. “What did you do with the Outsider?”

Daud laughs again, streaming smoke. “I didn’t do anything. Well, not much.”

“Then _where is He?_ ”

“You know what your problem is, Corvo?”

“Do you want an itemized list?”

“For all your spies and midnight excursions, you never think to look deeper into the mundane. You never turn over smooth stones to look at the bedlam that anchors them in place.”

Corvo doesn’t have the energy to refute that.

The cigar glows. “You hear about the growing prosperity up north of the estate district?”

“I—yes?” Shops hiring, a new tavern opening. One of Emily’s economic advisors mentioned it days ago.

“Isn't that strange,” Daud muses. “Dunwall’s been teetering on a razor’s edge between collapse and status quo even before Delilah got to it. Now a whole section of town is booming.” He taps ash onto the cushions. “That kind of phenomenon is curious to me. But maybe it's too mundane for you.”

Before Corvo can ask, _what does that have to do with the Outsider,_ the shards of the Void swallow Daud up, and he’s gone.

*

*

*

The streets are quiet tonight, so the Outsider’s trek across the rooftops is purely for training. He darts across pipes and fan covers, scales up slanted rooftops and skates down the other side. He does it again and again, until, panting, he hauls himself up onto a wider roof, one with a broad, flat strip of shingles down the center. He pauses there, planting his hands on his knees to slow his pounding heart and catch his breath.

It’s a clear evening, the full moon bright and big, the night cool but not cold. The Clocktower looms nearby. If he cared to look the other direction, he’d have a perfect view of Dunwall Tower. _Don’t_ , he thinks, stretching now, opening up his lungs. _You’ll only see lights on, and you’ll know they’re Corvo’s, and—_

He looks anyway.

The first thing to catch his eye isn’t the Tower, but a man—only two blocks away, crouching at the edge of a lower rooftop. The man rises smoothly back to his full height. He’s staring directly at the Outsider.

It’s Corvo.

The realization hits the Outsider like a bad fall. It’s Corvo, after _months_ of separation, on the cusp of so many more, time measured in years and then decades before he fades from the world, and the Outsider never there with him—but Corvo’s here, _now_ , at this very minute. The Outsider hungrily searches out every detail.

Moonlight glints off the familiar mask, and even with _that_ for a face, Corvo is devastating. His dark coat sharpens the lithe, long form of his body, the wind whipping at its tails. His shoulders are broad as ever. The Outsider can’t see a single weapon on him, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

Corvo still goes out at night, then. Even without the Mark.

The Outsider could laugh. He could weep, too, knowing that the moon behind him casts shadows on his own face, so even now, even if there was a _chance,_ there’s no way Corvo could see him, let alone recognize him.

But the way Corvo watches him—it’s not curiosity. It’s a threat. _These are my rooftops_ , the squareness of his shoulders seems to say. _Get your own._

The Outsider doesn’t have anything left to give, but he can give Corvo that.

He takes in the sight one last time—a full-body sweep, from the winged straps of Corvo’s boots to the dark arch of his cowl—then, with effort, tears his gaze away. The Outsider drops down onto a pipe sprouting from the side of the building and makes his way back to the ground.

Once his boots touch the cobblestones, it just—it hits him again, all at once. _Corvo_. The Outsider is already panting, already flushed and sweating from his rooftop run, but now it’s coupled with surprise that Corvo still finds his peace in the same places he always did. Where the Outsider now _does._ The warmth in his cheeks burns hotter.

And by the Void, Corvo still cuts every bit the dashing figure the Outsider sees in his best dreams. _Stubborn, brave Corvo. Dear Corvo._ He wishes he could’ve seen Corvo’s face. The sharp cut of his salt-and-pepper jaw, the surprising softness in his clever brown eyes. His callused hands. Void, those _hands—_

Arousal bolts through him, steals what little breath he’s gotten back. He—fuck, he’s standing in a dark alley on Blackburn Boulevard. There’s nothing he can do about it here.

He cuts across two more alleys and vaults a broken fence in his haste to get back to his apartment.

Inside, he rips off his coat, tosses it straight to the floor. Doesn’t bother with lamps; the moonlight’s more than enough. By now, after so many warm thoughts to accompany him home, he’s so hard he can barely think. He sags against the apartment door and starts scrabbling at his belt, his trousers.

The first touch of his own hand makes his head thud back into the door, a startled groan bursting from his lips. He squeezes his eyes shut, letting himself get lost in the kaleidoscope of color he finds there.

He thinks of Corvo on the rooftops again, the towering strength of him. All that understated confidence. He pictures the two of them at ground level, shoved into an alley’s shadowy corner like so many lovers he’s overheard. Slow, _deep_ kisses, the wire-scratch of Corvo’s beard. Helpless gasps, unthinking murmurs.

He imagines Corvo’s voice, the worn gravel of it: _Touch yourself. Show me how you do it._ Corvo watching, fascinated, his fingertips tracing between the Outsider’s on every stroke. He imagines Corvo sinking to his knees, a shuddering breath before taking the Outsider deep into his mouth. The Outsider’s hands clenching hard in Corvo’s hair, soft and thick, and Corvo moaning, because if the Outsider’s got him right—if everything he ever oversaw and overheard still rings true—then Corvo wants someone who doesn’t handle him gingerly.

The Outsider breathes a harsh, wordless sound, bucking into his fist. Hasn’t he always done that for Corvo? Trusted him with power, given him the truth, spoken frankly in so many of their conversations? If Corvo wanted the same from him in bed, the Outsider would give it. Gladly. Void, he’d give anything to watch Corvo come apart under his hands. He moans at the thought, twisting his hand on the upstroke the way he’s figured out he likes. His grip’s starting to catch in the slick that wells up from the head of his cock. He’s getting close already.

And the fantasy falls away, because now that he’s thinking of things overseen and overheard, he goes right to the primary source of his own memories. Corvo bent over a high mattress, his knuckles bone-white in the sheets, hair hanging in his eyes. Corvo fucking deep into his last partner, her eyes closed and back arched, one of his hands between them, working carefully and constantly.

The Outsider realizes suddenly that for all he’s seen, he doesn’t actually know what Corvo’s face looks like when he comes. In receiving, Corvo always hid his face in his own arms; in giving, it was all too easy to tuck his face against his partner’s shoulder or into their hair.

Maybe—if he was with the Outsider _—_ maybe Corvo would show him. Maybe Corvo would trust him enough—

Pleasure drops straight through him, _deep_ , seizing up all at once. He groans as he spills over his fist, back arching off the door. “Corvo,” he gasps, near-silent. His spare hand clenches tight, blunt nails digging into his palm. “ _Corvo_.”

He strokes himself until he’s too sensitive to do otherwise, slower and slower until at last, he goes still. Half-thoughts flit across his mind—pulling Corvo close, trading soft kisses, falling asleep wrapped around one another.

Panting, he catches his reflection in the moonlit window near the door. His hair is disheveled, his eyes bleary with arousal. His belt drags at his open trousers. He looks debauched. The very picture of heresy that the Overseers always claimed he was.

Guilt and disgust crowd up his throat. He strips off his ruined clothes, then runs a bath.

“You have to stop doing this,” he says aloud, watching the water rise. No matter how badly he wants it to be different, Corvo does not know him, _will not know him_.

The Outsider has to find a way to move on.

He will not let this happen again.

* * *

It happens again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time on AWIBA: hatters are why we can’t have nice things, our boys finally meet, and the only escort mission i’d ever willingly play.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok ok work kicked my ass this week so i couldn’t make this the extra-long chap i wanted it to be, ALAS. hopefully this tides everyone over in the meantime!
> 
> on another note: i know how they carry bodies in the game, but for the purpose of mark-less corvo’s tight-but-still-dad bod, he uses a fireman’s carry for this particular cargo, and he makes it look easy. even over the distance he has to cover, because idk, game logic. if he can hoist fifty heavies in one half-hour mission, he absolutely bench one wiry dude for like, half a mile.
> 
> also please forgive the absolute liberties i’m taking with proper wound symptoms/effects. it’s all for the drama, baybeee.
> 
> also also: that feel when your main characters are suddenly nate and sam drake tryin to climb high obstacles, right
> 
> and as always, _ahhh_ , i’m living for your comments n kudos. you’re all too good to me.
> 
> <3

The tavern officially re-opens with a new name: _the Call of the Sea._ Tev picked it out. “ _What_ ,” he’d said at the Outsider’s look. “All the new places have fusty names like that.”

It looks like a whole new tavern. Not as fusty as Tev’s name would suggest; it’s not out of place in the neighborhood. It’s just _clean_. Restored. It looks as though patrons can actually trust that the glasses won’t be covered in mysterious speckles. Fresh tiles, new booths and tables, chairs that aren’t battered. They kept the long bar, hewn from a single oak board, but had it sanded down and re-lacquered. Halogen lamps hang suspended in simple glass spheres overhead. There’s a silvergraph of Amos above the beer taps. The new staff—a crew of ten, in two shifts—are paid the fairest wages in Dunwall.

It’s full to bursting with folk from around the neighborhood from the first hour.

So of course, it only takes the Hatters two weeks to move in on it.

One moment, it’s a normal evening. Decent crowd, a cheery Tev spinning bottles and pulling taps, the Outsider taking inventory before he leaves for the night.

The next moment, the front windows shatter in a hail of bullets and bricks. Halogen lamps explode from precise shots. Screams knife through the chaos as patrons scatter, overturning tables and chairs in their haste to escape. In seconds, the place smells like gunpowder, like spilled beer and dark wine.

Fortunately, the Hatters seem more interested in property damage than kill shots. Tev and the Outsider scramble to herd everyone out the back, or through the side exit, into the apartment stairwell.

Soon as the crowd thins, the Outsider weaves back toward the front, guiltily ignoring Tev calling after him. _The Hatters have never hit a place this hard,_ he thinks. He can’t see the Hatters yet—with some of the lights gone, the place is dimmed, and the silvery haze from the gunsmoke and broken lamps isn’t helping—but he can hear them whooping and laughing. _What could they possibly want?_

He dashes behind the bar and ducks for cover. He keeps a spare set of knives up under a low shelf, and now he gropes around for them until at last, he pulls them free of their sheaths. As their steadying weight settles into his palms, he breathes a little easier, but his mind still races. _Do they want me? Will they stop if I show myself?_

More gunshots take out the shelf behind him, spilling glassware to the floor.

Cursing, he dives behind a table turned on its side. Shattered glass rains into folds of his clothing. He flicks open his knives, heart pounding. He gets one foot beneath himself and listens. He’ll wait for the gap in gunfire that means the Hatters are reloading, and then—

Then a man crashes down behind the table with him, and the Outsider’s thundering heartbeat lurches to a stupefied stop.

Broken glass cracks under the man’s heavy boots. His sword unfolds in his right hand like Void magic—fluid, instantaneous. His left hand is wrapped in dark leather, though the Outsider sees only bare, tanned skin beneath the gaps. His hood darkens a mask of shining metal, skeletal in its brutality, layers of lenses glinting from the cold eye sockets.

They’re nose to nose.

Staring at one another.

Until—

Corvo tears the mask off, his astonished brown eyes sweeping the Outsider up and down and back again. He’s gaping, one knife-thin scar barely a shadow across his lower lip. He croaks, “Outsider.”

Relief fills the Outsider with shocked heat. _He knows me. He knows—_ “Corvo.” It’s honey on his tongue. Seductive as a spell.

“You—you’re human.” Corvo’s gravel-dark voice is soft with disbelief. “ _How?_ How in the _Void_ —”

Gunfire rips a chunk out of the table overhead.

“Let’s survive this first,” suggests the Outsider. His heart’s begun beating again. Frantically. “Then I’ll give you the whole story.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Wonder still lights Corvo’s wide eyes. “You can use those knives?”

"I can." The Outsider gives them a twitch; they spin in a quick, graceful arc in his palms. He thinks, _I learned from you._

Corvo’s blinking at his hands. “Good. Then let’s—”

A ticking grenade lands with a _thud_ on the tiles beside them, rolling.

The Outsider freezes.

Corvo doesn’t.

Corvo, mask back on, knots a hand in the Outsider’s jacket, hauls him bodily upward, backward, _away_ , now an arm across the Outsider’s chest to knock him to the floor; together they land behind the bar. Corvo’s half on top of him, protecting him, one knee between the Outsider’s thighs, his hood fallen back and his coat buckles practically in the Outsider’s mouth.

In the instant before the grenade erupts, the Outsider breathes in. Through the stench of gunpowder and broken wine bottles, he finds the faint, masculine, spice-scent of good soap. The faintest wisps of leather and night air. His blood thunders in his ears. _Corvo_.

Then the place lights up.

He sees the fire before he hears the explosion, and then the noise tears the world into piercing silence even as it rumbles through his bones, vibrates the floor. The weight of Corvo’s lithe, narrow body is still braced protectively ( _maddeningly_ ), against the Outsider. Who looks up, desperate to see. He catches his breath at the fire haloing that windswept mane, glinting off the lines of the mask. He hides his face in Corvo’s coat again.

The Hatters must be moving into the space. The Outsider can hear cruel laughter, taunts and jeers—but it’s all distant through the fuzzy silence packed like cloth into his ears. A loud, high ringing pierces it all.

The flames pull back; smoke takes its place. Corvo eases up to a crouch and presses a dark blue, gold-margined handkerchief into the Outsider’s hand, gesturing at his face.

Then Corvo stands, props his compact crossbow against his left wrist and swivels, a slow arc. He squeezes the trigger. Three quick shots. Three heavy shudders in the floor.

While Corvo loads another sleep dart, the Outsider ties the handkerchief over his nose. The same spice-and-leather scent greets him, blocking out the smoke, and then Corvo has a hand on his shoulder, hauling him back to his feet. “Come on.” Corvo’s voice is far away. Underwater.

The Outsider steadies himself. He gets credit, he thinks, for not being too rattled to fight. Corvo’s dealt with chaos for decades, but it’s still relatively new for the Outsider, so the fact that he’s steady now—

Then more Hatters arrive. Five of them, emerging from the smoke like ghosts, fanning out in front of Corvo and the Outsider. Blocking the front exit, their backs to all the windows they shattered. Their jaunty hats look so brazenly ridiculous that the Outsider nearly laughs.

They’re wearing kerchiefs to protect their noses and mouths from the smoke, but even with much of their faces still visible, the Outsider doesn’t recognize them. At least, not from his spying over the last few months. Two of them are familiar from his time in the Void, but not since.

They aren’t from this district.

Corvo spends his last two sleep darts on the biggest goons, then holsters the crossbow before the men even hit the ground. His blade is back in his hand, a movement the Outsider never caught. Corvo holds it backwards, the same way the Outsider holds his knives.

“Not here for you, masked man,” says the apparent leader, her voice murky as Corvo’s after the explosion. Her glossy dark hair is pulled tightly back beneath the hat, her skin as brown as Corvo’s, for all the Outsider can see of it above her kerchief. She points her saber directly at the Outsider’s heart, her hands gloved in black leather. “We’re here for him. _Nameless_.”

Corvo’s shoulder bumps into the Outsider’s and stays there. “Going to have to go through me first.”

Her eyes narrow. “Suit yourself.”

She and the other Hatters move in. Corvo doesn’t even flinch. He just holds steady, waiting. The Outsider’s heart leaps with a thrill of recognition; apparently, Corvo still lets opponents come to him first, wearing themselves out on the offense until he can slip under their guard and take them down.

Only when the Hatters dart closer does Corvo move, putting his body in front of the Outsider’s, his blade and the Hatter’s meeting with a shriek of metal on metal. He pulls a knife from his belt and blocks another blade’s incoming swing.

But there’s no time to watch. The leader is coming at the Outsider with her saber raised and then falling—easy enough to block with a cross of his knives, and when he separates his blades with force, they shear right through the saber’s cheap metal.

Surprise widens the Hatter’s eyes, but then she’s backing up, turning the shorn metal backwards in her hand. She rushes in once more, but he dodges her, blocking with both blades. Metal sings and sparks. They circle one another.

“You’re a good fighter,” says the Outsider, trying for distraction. It usually works in the ring. And anyway, his hearing’s starting to clear. “I’m hiring more bouncers—you should work for me.”

“Fuck you,” she snarls.

“It’s more lucrative than a gang, surely.”

Her scowl deepens. “If I thought they’d let me, maybe I would.”

 _If I thought they’d let me_. He doesn’t think she’s talking about the Hatters. “Who?” he asks. Possibilities are opening up in his mind. Futures he hasn’t seen, conversations he hasn’t heard, a sprawling collection of paths upon paths. “Is someone putting you up to—”

She lunges, her sheared blade swinging wild. The Outsider deflects, but she’s steered him into an overturned chair, and suddenly he tips backward and— _no_ —they’re on the ground, rolling, grappling, both their kerchiefs falling away, his knuckles scraping the grout between the new tiles, a line of heat opening across his right shoulder—until he pins her to the floor, hovering the point of one blade above her heart. He has no intention of killing her, but she doesn’t need to know that. “If you’re working for someone,” he pants, “ _tell me._ ”

The fear drains from her face, and inexplicably, she _grins—_

Something solid bludgeons him upside the head.

Agony flashes through his skull, splotches of light bursting in his vision as he rolls. Smoke fills his lungs as he gasps. His temple is wet, his fingertips shocking red when they come away from it, and his knives—he’s just holding one now, where—

Another Hatter—no doubt the one who bludgeoned him, apparently just come in from the street—kicks the Outsider’s remaining knife away, then uses his boot to shove the Outsider to his back.

The Outsider’s too dazed except to let it happen, gasping up at the smoke-choked ceiling, searing pain pounding sharply in his head and boot-shaped against his ribs. The lead Hatter straddles his stomach and shoves the blade of her knife along the underside of his jaw—though not enough to pierce the skin.

The other Hatter, the man, sees the Outsider try to grab the woman’s wrist, and kicks his arms away, hard enough that they fall back over his head. The man sets his boot down on the Outsider’s wrists, grinding them into the tiles, and a twinge from his long-healed sprain somehow resurfaces, bolts pain down his arm, and just like that he’s—no, _no_ , he’s helpless—he can’t escape, he can’t even flinch or that blade will open his throat, and just twisting his wrist to free it is agony; gasping is agony, too, because of the smoke, and—

Oh, no. No, no, _no,_ he’s been here before, he’s done this already—and he can see it, he can see—

_—a twin-bladed knife hovering above him. Cloying incense burning his eyes and his throat, and ropes burning his wrists, tied so tight his hands are numb. Cultists chanting in a low drone._

_He thinks,_ someone’s going to come for me _, and he keeps on thinking it right up until he’s choking on his own blood, his throat open and wet and the cultists gone and his name gone and his eyes open, open, open—_

The weight lifts off his wrists as Corvo throws the Hatter through a four-top.

The Outsider barely sees the Hatter land; he’s busy knocking the knife out of the woman’s hand and springing up, rolling so that she’s the one back on the floor, his own blade returned to his hand, now angled against her jaw the same way she’d done to him. “Who,” he snaps, “are you _working for?_ ”

“I suggest telling him,” says Corvo, and the tip of his sword joins the Outsider’s blade. “I’m not as patient as he is.”

 _An empty threat,_ thinks the Outsider, _if you know Corvo._

But this woman doesn’t know Corvo. And her eyes are wide with fear. She closes them and whispers, “Ambrose Gideon.”

Dunwall’s new High Overseer.

The _High fucking Overseer._

 _Does he know who I am?_ thinks the Outsider, dazed. _Did he find out?_

“Please let me go,” the woman’s saying, babbling now, “please, I didn’t even want to be here—”

The Outsider sits back on his heels. He lowers his knife, says, “Go.” She lurches to her feet and hurries toward the door, stopping only to help another stumbling Hatter.

The smoke’s making it hard to see now. Hard to breathe.

“Come on,” Corvo says around a cough, offering his bare hand down to the Outsider. “We need to get out.”

The Outsider takes it, lets himself be pulled upright. Corvo’s hand is warm and _strong_ , rough with calluses, and—

All the blood rushes from his head. His temple throbs where he was hit, and his legs are shaking, and suddenly darkness is shivering in around the edges of his vision. Then all of his vision. He closes his eyes as everything tilts sideways.

He doesn’t remember hitting the ground.

* * *

He doesn’t remember hitting the ground because apparently, he _didn’t_.

Awareness is coming back, distant at first and then closer. He’s vertical, moving, putting some of his own weight on his own heels, and somehow has been, because— _oh_ —his right side is tucked directly against the solid bulk of Corvo’s body. His right arm is looped around Corvo’s neck, Corvo’s left arm under his shoulders, one strong hand holding tight to the unbruised side of his ribs.

He’s—he’s outside, he’s in the square. Filling his lungs with clean night air. Dizziness still pounds in his temples. Also the side of his face is wet? But he’s not choking on smoke anymore. 

"There you are," says Corvo, apparently noticing him rousing. The mask brushes cold against his ear, but Corvo's voice is warm. "Had me worried."

Why it's the first thing past his lips, he has no idea: "I think I lost your handkerchief."

Corvo hums a noise like a laugh. "I don't care about the handkerchief."

Corvo is drawing him toward the crowd of stunned patrons and neighbors, all spread out in a crescent a safe distance away. The glow of the burning pub illuminates their stunned faces. The Outsider can’t see any Hatters, but—he twists back to look at the pub. A few of them stagger out of the smoke, helping one another before vanishing into the shadows on either side of the building.

When the Outsider faces ahead once more, Tev is striding toward them, his eyes wide and his hands spread. “ _Nameless!_ Void help us—”

“I’m all right.” The Outsider’s voice scrapes against his stinging throat. “Tev, the bar—I’m so sorry—"

“Why are _you_ sorry? We’ve got insurance, nobody’s much hurt except you. And Void, you look a _fright_ —"

“Looks worse than it feels.”

“Oh good, you’re a martyr now. And who’s this?” Tev finally turns to inspect Corvo, and his eyes widen. “Wh—what kind of mask is that?”

Corvo hesitates. “I’m—”

“He’s a friend,” says the Outsider. “A dear friend.” He could probably stand on his own, but Corvo is radiating a welcome heat, and that leather-spice scent is so much better than the smoke. “I trust him.”

Tev eases up on the suspicion. “I _did_ see you herd some of our customers out before I lost you in the shuffle. You just— _appeared,_ and started hustling.”

“People were in trouble,” says Corvo. “I was nearby.”

Tev frowns. “You often dive into shootouts on a whim?”

Corvo seems embarrassed. “If I can help.”

The Outsider stares. He isn’t surprised, he’s just—he _missed_ Corvo. He manages, “You’re—that’s—”

“Reckless?” Corvo suggests, wry.

 _Never._ The Outsider knows how Corvo works, and it isn’t reckless. But calculated as it is, it’s still bold. He manages, “I was going to say ‘brave.’”

Corvo flinches—or doesn’t flinch, just—adjusts his arm around the Outsider as he leans toward Tev. “Listen.” Corvo keeps his voice low. “One of the Hatters said they did this to get at him, specifically. If more of them show up—”

Tev’s eyes flare even wider as he looks back at the Outsider. “They did this because of you?”

“See,” says the Outsider, feeling absolutely wretched, “ _that’s_ why I’m sorry.”

“No, no—nevermind about that.” Tev shakes his head, looking past them. Looking around. “You need to get someplace safe. Soon, before they come back with more muscle _._ ”

 _If Ambrose Gideon really is behind this,_ the Outsider thinks, _that "muscle" could include Overseers._ But where can he go? His apartment is above the pub that’s burning down before their eyes. He doesn’t have the strength to run rooftops all night. Damn it, he _knew_ he should have established safehouses long ago. “I—I don’t know where I’d—”

“I’ve got someplace,” says Corvo. “You can come with me, if that’s—if you want.”

The Outsider nearly laughs. Void, yes, he wants. He wants so badly that it’s starting to clear his dizziness. “All right. Yes. But I can’t—Tev, I can’t leave you here—”

“If you want to help us recover from this, then start by staying alive. I’ll handle the fire brigade.” Whose distant, clanging bell is growing louder as their cart nears. “And _you_ —” Tev steps up to Corvo, points an exceedingly un-threatening finger up at him. “—if you hurt him—well, hurt him _more_ —I will—I will do _something._ I don’t know what yet, but when I figure it out—”

The Outsider grips Tev’s arm. “ _Tev._ He’s safe.”

“Go on, then. Meet me back here when you can do it without getting your head kicked in a second time.”

Corvo, still holding the Outsider upright, leads them through the back of the crowd. Even dazed, the Outsider notices how Corvo avoids light from the street lamps, keeping them in the dark. How he glances about to make sure they’re not being followed. It’s like something out of a dream.

“Think you can walk on your own?” Corvo asks.

“I’m—not sure.” But he doesn’t want to let go.

Corvo must not, either, because he makes no attempt to unstick the Outsider from his side.

“Where’s your safe place?” the Outsider asks as they duck down an alley.

“Uh. The Tower.”

His half-laugh makes it out of his throat this time, but it sounds strangled. “You’re going to scandalize the staff.”

“You think I can’t get into my own rooms without alerting the staff?”

Right. This _is_ the Royal Spymaster, here. The man who still goes out on the rooftops often enough that tonight, of all nights, he crashed into the Call of the Sea when it was under attack. 

“Come on,” says Corvo, carefully unlooping the Outsider’s arm from around his neck. The Outsider mourns the loss of warmth. “We need to get off the street. That means going up. Once we’re on the roofs, I can carry you the rest of the way, but I can’t haul you straight up a three-meter climb. Got it in you to help me out?”

Deep breath. “I think so. Am I—damn it, I feel terrible.”

“Let me see.” Corvo’s hands alight on either side of his jaw. For one wild, adrenaline-spiking moment, the Outsider thinks Corvo might drop the mask and kiss him—but Corvo merely tilts his face gently toward the moonlight. “Looks like a minor concussion. Some blood loss from that cut. It’ll need stitches. And you breathed a lot of smoke. But you’ll be fine.”

“It doesn’t _feel_ like I’ll be fine.”

“You will.” It’s said so fondly. Almost softly. “I can patch you up.”

Corvo’s hands leave his face, and the Outsider has to fight the instinct to lean after him.

 _Void. Get a hold of yourself._ As the adrenaline rush forces his foggy mind to clear, the Outsider realizes how pathetic he must look to Corvo. Everything he used to be, all the magic and power that would leap to his fingertips with a thought, all the truths and paths he could fathom, down to their very ends—and now he’s this. A shaky, broken, bleeding mess. Corvo probably saw him freeze in a full panic when those Hatters had him trapped, and saw him reeling at Ambrose Gideon's name.

No match in the fighting ring has ever wounded him this badly, or unnerved him so thoroughly. It feels so vastly, cosmically unjust that _now_ , now that Corvo’s here, the Outsider is falling to pieces.

What must Corvo think of him? How disappointed must he be to learn that this former god is now just as fallible as any other man?

Corvo doesn’t seem to notice the Outsider’s silent crisis-in-progress. “Think you can step into my hands?” he asks. “There’s a fire ladder up there.” He gestures above their heads. “If you can get to the top and hit the release to send it back down to me, that’ll be it.”

The Outsider nods, steeling his resolve. _Stop wallowing._ He can accomplish this one simple thing. “I can do it.”

“Then come here.” Corvo cups his palms. “And step onto my shoulder, if you need to.”

He braces his hands on Corvo’s (solid, wide, _strong_ ) shoulder, sets his boot in Corvo’s interlaced fingers, and steps _up_ , using Corvo’s other shoulder as a second step.

He ignores how his belt buckle clicks against Corvo’s mask, his groin following. Unperturbed, Corvo rises with him, propelling him easily upward.

The Outsider gets two handfuls of cold ladder rung, hauls himself up the rest, then swings onto the ledge and kicks the release lever. The ladder drops. Before it can clang to the ground, Corvo catches it, lowers it the rest of the way soundlessly.

Once Corvo’s scaled the ladder and pulled it back up, they haul themselves up the remaining steps to the roof, the iron shuddering beneath them. With every heartbeat, it feels like more blood’s rushing from the Outsider’s head. Dizziness churns at his vision again. The moment they reach the top, the whole of Dunwall coming into view, he sways on his feet. The air is freer up here, and the cool nighttime breeze combs through his sweat-damp hair.

“Corvo,” he says. It sounds faint, far away. His ears are still ringing. _Pitiful._ "I don't think..."

“I’ve got you,” says Corvo, and suddenly his broad shoulders are directly beneath the Outsider, the ground falling away as Corvo lifts him. One knee and one arm drape across Corvo’s chest. He can feel Corvo’s leather-wrapped hand against his wrist. Corvo's other hand gripping just above his knee.

Already they’re moving, and swifter, steadier, than the Outsider would’ve guessed. It’s still dizzying. He shuts his eyes against the sight of slate-gray shingles flowing past beneath them. _You’re absolutely pitiful_. But he makes himself whisper, “Thank you.”

The Outsider isn't sure if it's delirium or reality when he feels Corvo's thumb brush gently, reassuringly, over his wrist. He doesn't get the chance to ask. Darkness pulls him beneath its irresistible waves, and unconsciousness closes over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time on AWIBA: stitches, tenderness, an EVEN LONGER OVERDUE conversation, and ecstatic insomnia.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what in the frick frack, your comments are L I F E, thank you for those, _what_ <3 fully obsessed with how we’ve collectively decided that these two are absolute BUFFOONS, _FOOLS_ , you are all totally right and they’re only gonna get deeper into denial before they don’t. sorry not sorryyy ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿
> 
> warnings in this section for really specific descriptions of bleedy wound care and stitching. 
> 
> enjoy, loves, and happy friday <3

The Outsider rises back to bleary consciousness, slowly. His temple throbs. His neck aches. As his eyes drift open the first thing he sees is—

Corvo.

Corvo fills his vision, Corvo with his coat gone, vest unbuttoned, white sleeves rolled to just beneath his elbows. His leather hand-wrap is missing. His eyes are narrowed with concentration, his bearded jaw set. He’s sitting _close_ , perched on the edge of a clawfoot tub, their knees nearly touching. He’s sifting through a tin packed with compartments of healing supplies.

The Outsider drinks in the sight of him like those first gulps of ale back in Karnaca, months ago. The sweetness of it eases the pain in his temple.

Corvo is _here_.

He isn’t half a city away, in a lifetime the Outsider left behind. He isn’t a good dream that fades too quickly, a thought he chases down between lonely gasps of pleasure in the night.

He’s right here. In this—the Outsider glances around—immaculately clean washroom. And _Corvo knows the Outsider._ Recognized him at first glance, took his mask off during a public shootout to see the Outsider with his own eyes.

 _And here_ I _am_ _,_ thinks the Outsider. _A fallen god who can barely stay conscious._ He struggles to sit up straighter on the lidded necessary.

Corvo notices. “Hey,” he says, his rumbling voice _so_ warm. “Welcome back.” His clever brown eyes shine with concern; he reaches to help steady the Outsider, but his hands never quite land. “Take it easy—don’t get up yet. Those cuts still need stitching.”

The Outsider wants to protest the stitches, but as he winces, dried blood pulls against his face. Looking down, he can see that his own jacket’s gone, and there’s blood drying in drips down the lapel of his cream-colored shirt.

So maybe he’ll take the stitches. His voice rasps when he manages, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Corvo smiles. “Good.” There’s a square of gauze in his hand now, and he sets it gently against the Outsider’s stinging temple. “Hold this here. Keep pressure on it, all right.”

Their fingers brush as they trade, but there’s no time to dwell on it; the moment the Outsider puts pressure on the wound, pain flares up all over again. He grits his teeth and tries not to make a sound. He focuses on Corvo.

Who’s twisting the cork free from a stoppered brown bottle. He glances up at the Outsider, then quickly back down. “You’re staring.”

The Outsider croaks, “I just can’t believe that I—I really didn’t dream you?”

Corvo’s smile comes back, a crooked little thing. “No. Although I’m not so sure I didn’t dream _you_.”

“I’m real enough. I’m—human. As you guessed.”

“Yeah. Somehow I don’t think the Void version of you could bleed this much. Also, the, ah.” Corvo gestures at his own eyes to indicate the Outsider’s. “Those were a giveaway.”

“Right.” The Outsider closes them, suddenly aware that he’s still telegraphing his own fascination loud and clear.

“It’s a nice change,” says Corvo. “It’s—the color suits you.”

When the Outsider looks again, Corvo’s brows have drawn together as he focuses on his work. Almost as though he’s embarrassed. But of course he isn’t. Why would he be? The Outsider says, “How do you even know me? No one recognizes me anymore unless they have my Mark.”

“You’re not that easy to forget.” Corvo presses a cotton pad against the mouth of the brown bottle and briefly upends it to soak the cotton. “Lift up that gauze, will you.”

The Outsider pulls his hand away. The gauze is spattered red, but not saturated. Corvo studies the wound with a practiced eye as he brushes the tincture-soaked pad across it, and _ow—_ the biting sting of it makes the Outsider’s eyes water. It smells sharply of chamomile and other herbs he can’t quite identify, obliterating his sinuses.

“I know,” says Corvo. He’s still smiling, his touch impossibly gentle. “It’s sharp. But it won’t get infected, so there’s that.” He sits back. “Trade you—keep pressure on it with this. We’ll make sure it stops bleeding before I stitch it.”

The Outsider gives Corvo the spattered gauze, and presses the tinctured pad against the wound. Corvo nods to the edge of the sink beside them, where there’s a glass of water and a single, garish-red vial of S&J. “Those are for you, by the way.”

The Outsider takes the vial in his free hand, the glass cool to the touch. “It won’t heal me fully. Not without a Mark.”

“No, but it’ll ease that headache. Your neck’s probably starting to feel it, too.”

He’s right about that. The Outsider thumbs the vial open and drains it in a gulp. It’s sweet, herbal—like strong tea. But the back of his throat still feels char-broiled, and he says so.

“Yeah.” Corvo’s unsurprised. “That’s from the smoke. It’ll pass. Try to choke down that water, too. It should help.”

The Outsider drinks. He’s still watching Corvo between pulls. He thinks of explorers lost in the Pandyssian wastes, delirious from sunstroke and thirst until they finally plunge into cold, clear streams. He’s unable to keep the desperation from his voice when he says, “You saved my life.”

Corvo’s threading a hooked needle. “About time I returned the favor.”

It’s so odd—its premise so _untrue—_ that the Outsider sets his water aside and touches Corvo’s hand to still him. And Corvo—he doesn’t flinch, exactly. More catches his breath. And no wonder—the Outsider doesn’t think he’s ever _touched_ Corvo before. Not in passing, not in warmth. Nothing, before tonight. He hurries on with what he meant to say: “You ‘returned the favor?’ What favor? I never _saved_ your life. I only complicated it. For a long time. I didn’t just—give you a gift and let you alone, like so many others. I demanded your attention. Over and over. I didn’t even understand that your humoring me wasn’t a kindness, it was—it was survival.” The Outsider takes his hand back, struck with a truth he knows he should’ve realized far sooner: “You should hate me.”

Corvo’s busy hands have gone still. He’s the one staring, now, his eyes soft with disbelief. “How could I hate you? You’re—maybe you never dragged me from a gang fight, but you gave me the ability to do it myself. Whenever I needed to. You—your _gift—_ brought Emily back to me. _Twice._ ” He looks awestruck. “Everything that happened, and then you spent years making time for me in a way that few people ever…” His throat bobs. “I can’t count the number of times you’ve saved me.”

The Outsider is afraid that if he breathes wrong, if he thinks about this too hard, the moment is going to dissipate—scatter to the wind like smoke from a burning tavern, and he’ll wake up facedown on cracked new tiles, dazed and bleeding as the inferno roars around him and Tev yells at him to move. Because Corvo can’t just _say these things_ , he can’t just say them and mean them, as he so clearly does. There has to be a catch. The Outsider doesn’t deserve this. And he doesn’t deserve it _now_ , so broken and powerless and…

“ _Survival,_ ” Corvo scoffs. “It wasn’t survival. I was always glad to see you.”

The Outsider has never spoken a lie to Corvo, but when he manages, “And I, you,” it feels like the truest thing he's ever said.

The moment the Outsider realizes they’re just—they’re just _staring at each other,_ honest and wide-open _—_ Corvo points his gaze back to the hooked needle and thread once more. “I actually thought _you_ were done with _me,_ ” Corvo says. “Emily got me out of that stone, your Mark was on her hand, and then—nothing. Neither of us heard from you.”

“I was distracted.” It sounds so inadequate for the way Daud suddenly held his entire attention—and commanded his entire fate. “And then it was…it’s a long story.”

“Well, I have nothing but time. And so do you, since we’re laying low. I’d listen if you wanted to share it. I still need to know how you came to own a tavern.”

“I’ll tell you everything. But—what were you even doing there? That isn’t your end of town.”

“I still go out on the rooftops a few nights a week, even without your Mark.”

 _I know._ “Yet I saw you still cover your hand.”

“Old habits.” Corvo says it quickly, dismissively. “But tonight I was near that section of town because—hunh.” He sits back, realization lighting his eyes.

“What is it?”

“It’s just—a few days ago. Daud dropped out of the Void and told me I should investigate your district.”

The Outsider feels a thrill of…not _jealousy_. It’s absolutely not that. He knows he’s gaping anyway. “Daud appeared to you?”

“He did. Decked out in black eyes, Void shadows. All of it. I asked where you were. He wouldn’t tell me. Just said I should look into what’s happening in your district.”

Strange. _Why would Daud take an interest? What’s his endgame?_ “Then he’s been watching me.”

Corvo's left brow rises. “Did the graffiti not tip you off?”

It makes the Outsider smirk. “Right. _The Entity is watching_.”

“A little too closely, if you ask me,” Corvo grumbles. “So Daud is—what, in charge of the Void now?”

“In a manner of speaking. As ‘in charge’ as one can be in the Void.”

Corvo looks back down at the needle and thread, seemingly forgotten again. He says, “He offered me his Mark.”

The Outsider’s heart jumps even as he remembers he’s seen no such Mark on Corvo. “You turned him down.”

“I don’t belong to him.”

 _I don’t belong to him_.

Is there any universe, any possibility, where that could mean _I belong only to you?_

The Outsider says, “I should have given yours back.”

“It’s good that you didn’t.” Corvo glances up again. “The new Overseers are already breathing down Emily’s neck every chance they get. I don’t need them suspicious of me, too. Now come on. Let me start on your shoulder.”

“My—?” The Outsider looks down, and, surprised, takes in the long slice at the very top of his right arm. Part of his sleeve beneath it is hanging and red, but the bleeding has stopped. He dimly remembers grappling on the tiles with the Hatter woman. Her sheared blade must have struck him. “I didn’t even notice.”

“Happens to me all the time. Your head hurt worse, so everything else just fell away.” Corvo clears his throat. “You wanna, uh.” He gestures at the Outsider’s sleeve. Even sliced open as it is, it’s still not enough room to get at the wound.

“Right—of course.” The Outsider works his shirt buttons open, then shrugs the fabric down his shoulder.

He cannot imagine how ridiculous it must look.

Corvo doesn’t seem to care. He’s already dabbing at the wound with more of that sharp-smelling tincture, and in seconds, the hooked, threaded needle is back in his hand. “It’s going to hurt,” he warns.

The Outsider thinks of the bruises and scrapes and cuts he collected from his first few months in the fighting ring. Every way the Overseers thrashed him, in the beginning. He says, “I’ll weather it.”

“Just try not to move.” Corvo spreads a callused hand on the Outsider’s arm, thumb and forefinger framing the cut, his other fingers fanned along the crest of his shoulder, and—the Outsider bites back a gasp. Void, the _heat_ Corvo soaks into his skin, the dizzying wash of pleasure that lifts goosebumps on both arms and all the way up his neck…surely Corvo can see it. Surely Corvo can tell that this is the first time the Outsider’s been touched so carefully, so deliberately, with anything other than violence, in so long— _so_ long—

Then the needle sinks in, and there’s the violence. It’s familiar; the Outsider clings to the way it’s both sharp and deep, a surprised grunt forcing itself past his clenched jaw. He wills the pain to anchor him to a reality where he isn’t starry-eyed and breathless from one inane, simple, meaningless touch.

“All right,” Corvo says, pulling the long thread gently taut; the motion shivers through the Outsider’s skin. More goosebumps. Sharp _sting_ again. Shiver. Barely-there tautness. Warm fingers. “Tell me the whole story. How you became human. How you’re a restauranteur.”

The Outsider tells Corvo about Billie and Daud, the Ritual Hold. Corvo listens, brows furrowed, his eyes flickering between his work and the Outsider’s own gaze.

“Emily told me about that ritual,” Corvo says when the Outsider pauses. The needle is narrowing in on the end of the wound. _Sting_. Shiver. Taut. Warmth. “The island at the edge of the Void, where they—made you.”

They _have_ talked about it. About him. “It wasn’t the same place. I wish I could explain how.”

“She said you...” Corvo’s gone still. Hesitant. “She told me how you died. How they cut your name away. The ropes, and the altar, and...” He actually does look embarrassed now. “Saw those Hatters get the jump on you. You looked—you _went_ somewhere. Wondered if it was there.”

The Outsider’s face heats. So Corvo was able to hear an anecdote of an anecdote, and still recognize its effects playing out before his eyes. Once again, the Outsider is reminded of exactly how low his own humanity has brought him. He mutters, “So you saw me panic.”

“I saw them realize they’d never underestimate you again.”

That’s—the Outsider blinks at him. Not what he was expecting. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s mortified. “I haven’t...” The Outsider bites the inside of his cheek, wrestling with the way his aching throat’s gone tight. “I haven’t felt as helpless as I was tonight in a long time. Maybe not since then.”

“Same thing then as today,” says Corvo. He’s tying off the thread now. “You were outnumbered. But turning the game in your favor—that’s something you can learn.” _I can help_ , he doesn’t add, but from the way his eyes briefly search the Outsider’s, the offer is clear.

He’ll ask when he can think clearly. _At this rate, never, if Corvo keeps touching me._

Corvo snips the last of the thread, then presses a clean square of gauze to the wound. He winds a length of more gauze around the Outsider’s arm to keep it in place, his touch warm and careful. More goosebumps prickle all down the Outsider’s shoulder, his sides. “I’ll check it again in the morning,” says Corvo. “Change it out if we need to.”

The Outsider’s still wrapping his mind around the prospect that there’s even going to _be_ an in-the-morning. That he’ll have so much time with Corvo. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Still need to finish your head wound. Lift up that gauze.” With another needle and thread ready, Corvo leans even closer, his gaze focused just above and past the Outsider’s right eye. He doesn’t brace his free hand this time.

The Outsider grits his teeth as the needle sinks in. There it is again—the sharp _sting_ , then the long shiver of thread, at last tugged gently taut.

He’s trying not to stare at each individual shard of brown in Corvo’s eyes, narrow with concentration.

“So Daud gave you back your name,” Corvo says into the quiet. “But you’re still—I heard Tev call you ‘Nameless.’”

“Daud returned my name, yes. But it’s only speakable in the language of the dead. It’s gone. I can’t remember it. Even if I could remember it, I couldn’t speak it.”

Corvo frowns. “Could you write it down?”

“It was on the back of your hand for fifteen years.”

Corvo looks up, startled, his stitching gone still. But the Outsider smiles, adding, “You could give the pronunciation a try.”

“Point taken.” Corvo smiles, too, soft and wondering. “So no name. Should still I call you ‘Outsider?’”

“That’s fine.” It is. He thinks again of Corvo crashing down beside him in the Call of the Sea. The way he breathed the title, stunned and relieved: _Outsider._ “I’ll come up with another name eventually.”

Corvo, concentrating again, says, “I didn’t even know freeing you from the Void was possible. Is that something you wanted?”

The Outsider draws his lower lip into his mouth, thinking. “It never occurred to me to want it. I wondered if it was _possible_ , but it never appeared in any of the futures I could see. Not until—almost right before it happened.”

“And here you are.”

Warmth fills his heart. “Here I am.”

“What happened after you and Billie escaped the Void?”

He tells Corvo more—that day in Karnaca. The last few months. Trying to pull Dunwall out of the mire. Tev, and the pub, and training himself to fight. Intercepting the Overseers thanks to what he hears from the Hatters. Running rooftops.

At that, Corvo’s eyes snap to his again. “It was you.”

The Outsider thinks he might know what Corvo’s just realized. “What was me?”

“On the rooftops the other night.” Corvo’s eyes flit back to his work. He’s tying off the stitches now. “I saw someone up there, but I couldn’t see their face. But you must’ve seen mine. The mask, anyway.”

“I wanted to go to you,” says the Outsider. “I truly—” There aren’t words to express how much. “But remember, I was convinced you wouldn’t know me.”

Corvo hums. “It’s probably better that you didn’t. I was expecting a fight.” He’s taping another square of gauze over the finished stitches now. “So tell me. You spent so long just watching. Why try to change things now?”

The Outsider hesitates. He can’t very well say, _It’s all for you_ , mostly because it isn’t entirely true anymore. Over the last few months, since he’s gotten to know the residents of that district, it’s become about so much more. “By the time I left the Ritual Hold,” he says carefully, “I’d been in the Void for…almost four thousand years.” Here, on this side of it, it sounds impossible. “Whatever empathy I carried into it was long gone. Anyone apart from my Marked was…an abstract concept. I felt no obligation to them. I barely _felt_ anything—not as intensely as I do now.” He’s veering into pontificating territory, but he—he needs Corvo to understand. “Now that I’m here, I realize how much I could’ve changed from the Void. I could never have impacted events directly, no, but…I still could’ve done more. I regret every day that I never did. But it’s not enough to regret it. I’ve got to _do_ something. Here, I have a different kind of power. I won’t let it go to waste this time. I refuse to just watch when I can help.”

Corvo hangs onto every word, his attention rapt. But at the finish, he looks away. His mouth is parted, the scar across his lower lip barely a shadow. “Can I ask you something?”

“Corvo,” says the Outsider, and _oh_ , the taste of his name still sparks like magic. “You can ask me anything at all.”

Those brown eyes come back slowly. Guiltily. He says, “Why didn’t you tell me about Delilah’s coup?”

The Outsider has never been more grateful for an easy answer. “I couldn’t. The way Delilah twisted parts of the Void to suit her whims…when she did that, she was able to hide herself from me. And with it, all her fates. Every possibility.”

“Would you have told me even if you knew?”

It makes the Outsider’s chest feel hollowed-out. “I don’t know. I like to think I would have, but maybe that’s just all this time being human.” He wets his lips, realizing just how much humanity has changed him. “If it happened now—I would tell you in a heartbeat. I wouldn’t hesitate.”

Corvo’s crooked smile comes back. “That’s good enough for me.”

The Outsider doesn’t think he’ll deserve the gentleness in Corvo’s voice—the forgiveness—for as long as he lives. “Is it?”

“It is,” says Corvo. “You—you really couldn’t feel things in the Void? You made a decent show of it.”

“Some things. Sometimes.” _It was easier with you._ “I’m making up for it now. I don’t know how anyone can stand this.” The Outsider presses a hand over his heart. “Balancing so many emotions at once, it’s—it’s _torment_.”

“That sounds about right.”

It seems strange, that Corvo—usually so reserved, accustomed to that reservation—would agree. The Outsider says, “Even you?”

“Even me.” Corvo shrugs, standing, moving to the sink. He begins washing the blood off his hands. “Every minute, just like everyone else.”

Determined not to overthink that, the Outsider leans forward, elbows on his knees. The S&J seems to be setting in, easing the ache in his head and in his muscles. His hair’s still a little sweat-damp, when he runs his hands through it, and he finds the scent of smoke with every breath in, but he’s whole. Alive. In a washroom somewhere in Dunwall Tower. Completely patched up, thanks to Corvo.

He’s grateful. He’s…Void. How many times can a person feel so vulnerable in a single night? His humanity truly has changed him. He doesn’t think Corvo’s disappointed, but…the words come before he can stop himself: “I don’t know what you must think of me.”

The water shuts off. “How do you mean?”

“Everything I was before, and now I’m…” The Outsider lifts his head and opens his hands. “—well, look at me. I’m just. Broken.”

“You’re not broken. You just took a beating.” Corvo’s drying his hands on a clean white towel, which he then flips over his shoulder. “And for what it’s worth—I’m glad you’re human.”

He’s staring again, he knows it. “You are?”

“You said it yourself—the you in the Void never would’ve done what you’re doing now.” Corvo’s soaking another pristine-white towel under the tap. “You’re changing things for the better, and it doesn’t seem like you’re about to let anyone stop you. I admire your tenacity.”

“You do?”

“I do.” Corvo holds out the damp towel. “For the blood on your face. Need a hand?”

“No, I’ll manage.” Everything Corvo’s already done—the thought of him tenderly sponging blood off the Outsider’s face is too much. He takes the towel. “Thank you.” The cool touch of the water is a mercy on his overheated face. It makes him wonder what kind of waterlogged, soot-blackened mess he’s going to find when he ventures back to the tavern.

Damn it, he hates that he left Tev there, even if Tev insisted. Yes, the Hatters wanted to get at the Outsider, but… _Tev’s fine_ , he reminds himself. _He’s survived in that district far longer than you’ve been there. The High Overseer doesn’t want_ him _. He’s safe._

Corvo watches the Outsider, leaning in the washroom threshold. “What’s on your mind?”

The Outsider realizes he’s been frowning. “The tavern,” he says. “You heard the Hatter. She said Ambrose Gideon hired them.”

“Been thinking about that.” Corvo folds his arms, a line of consternation darkening between his brows. “No matter who ordered it, I don’t understand why they’d be after you if no one recognizes you. Do they think you’re some kind of heretic?”

“Heretics get dragged into the street and carted off to the Abbey with planted evidence in their pockets.” Void, there’s dried blood on his _neck_. He scrubs at it, forcing back sour memories of more blood from the same place. “They don’t see their businesses burned down.”

“I have a contact who’s friendly with the Hatters,” Corvo says thoughtfully. “I can see if they know anything.”

“No, you don’t need to do that. It would be too suspicious.”

There goes Corvo's left brow again, just— _ascending_. “I wouldn’t let people work for me if they couldn’t gather intelligence on the sly.”

The Outsider ducks his head to hide his smile. He folds the towel in his hands, the crisp white now feathery and patchy with rust-red. “I keep forgetting you’re Dunwall’s spymaster. I’ve just—become accustomed to doing things myself.”

“You don’t have to this time. I’m glad to help.”

“Then I accept. But you’ve already done so much for me.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Corvo leans back to glance into the room behind him. “It’s well after one. Are you tired?”

“Exhausted.”

“So am I. Didn’t expect to pick up a passenger on my way home.”

The Outsider starts to apologize, shame rising—but Corvo’s smiling at him. _Teasing him_. So he grumbles, “Next time, I’ll endeavor to float.” Gingerly, he hauls himself upright with the edge of the sink. Corvo takes a step closer, ready to help, but it’s not so bad, and the Outsider holds out a hand to stop him. “I’m all right.” He waits for the slight dizziness to pass. He _does_ feel better. Much better than when he awoke. He stretches carefully, an eye on his newly-stitched shoulder. The bruise against his side aches, but it doesn’t hurt near enough for his ribs to be broken.

Corvo, satisfied, heads from the washroom. “Let’s get you something to sleep in that won’t get blood all over my sheets.”

“Wait. _Your_ —?” The Outsider thought they were in unoccupied guest quarters, someplace unused. Neutral. Not _Corvo’s room_. Which he steps into, his eyes wide as he finds himself not in Corvo’s grand suite, but in a softly-lit bedroom that resembles Emily’s—small, well-furnished. Easier to defend. The biggest thing in the room is the four-post bed, canopied in gold-edged blue. There’s a desk to his right, near the fireplace. A striped sofa sits along the far wall, parallel to the bed.

It’s the same sofa where the Outsider’s perched before, chatting as he watched Corvo work through sword forms. Wanting before he truly understood what it was to want. Before his humanity fine-tuned that want into desire. Put a thrumming desperation under his skin that he can feel even now.

Corvo turns from the wardrobe, a nightshirt and loose pants in his grip. “I downsized,” he explains, to the surprise apparently still on the Outsider’s face. “Done with the old place.”

The Outsider wonders what, exactly, made Corvo finally decide he’d had enough living in his dead lover’s quarters. “I like it,” he says.

“You’re taking the bed.”

His heart _leaps_. “I’m not taking your _bed_ —”

“It’s a rule: if you crack your head open, you get the bed.” Corvo’s beside him again, holding out the pajamas.

So the Outsider takes them. Slowly. Void, they’re soft. “What about you?”

“I believe you’re familiar with the sofa.”

“The _sofa—_ no, you can’t—”

“I won’t be able to sleep unless I know you’re comfortable as I can make you,” says Corvo. “Might as well get used to it.” He retreats back to the washroom.

The Outsider toes off his boots, pulls off his smoke-stained clothes, then tugs on the nightshirt and pants. The material is cool against his skin but warms quickly, and when he breathes in, he smells Corvo. Contentment and relief fill him, weightless as air.

The sheets are the same as the shirt, soft and cool, the blankets heavy. The mattress is surprisingly firm; the Outsider would’ve thought everyone in the palace prefers feather beds deep enough to disappear into.

When his head hits the pillow—oh, _Void_. He’s surrounded by Corvo. He’s drowning in Corvo.

Ears still ringing faintly, he curls up on his left side—the uninjured one, the one not packed with gauze, his back to the sofa. He closes his eyes and breathes out slowly, pressing his nose to the pillow. 

He’ll have a whole host of terrible things to face tomorrow. Mysteries to unravel. Himself and others to protect. But tonight…tonight he gets to have this. He gets Corvo’s attention, his kindness, his patience, none of which the Outsider deserves, but somehow, are still his to keep.

For the first time in what feels like months, sleep is waiting for him as soon as he shuts his eyes.

*

*

*

Corvo cannot _sleep_.

And it’s not just because his back and hamstrings are _livid_ that he carried an entire person halfway across the city rooftops. Or because his throat feels charred from all the smoke he breathed. Or that he’s got to kip on the sofa.

Actually, the sofa may have a lot to do with it. These cushions are _not_ built for sleeping.

The Outsider, meanwhile, is having no such trouble. Corvo can only _just_ hear the sound of His breathing, and it’s slow and deep. He glances up over his left shoulder, toward the bed. The Outsider hasn’t budged from where He curled up nearly half an hour ago.

Corvo takes a deep breath and settles back against the sofa, trying to get his racing mind to slow. He drapes his arm over his eyes.

Just a few hours ago, it was shaping up to be an uneventful evening. He was following up on Daud’s lead, which clearly a bust; he saw nothing but a district that looked slightly less weedy than the last time he’d passed through. He was turning back to the Tower when the Hatters attacked a tavern, hurling bricks and firing their pistols, gun smoke filling the air with each pop.

Corvo thought only of civilians when he jumped directly into the chaos. He helped a few get clear until he dove for cover against another volley—and found himself looking into wide eyes, the irises as gray-green as a cloudy Karnacan sea.

The Outsider looked— _looks—_ older. His jaw, square and sharp as ever, is now shadowed with sundown stubble. Corvo was close enough, the shattered lights _just_ bright enough, to note the pale, almost invisible freckles dotting His cheeks, across the bridge of His nose. All the fine lines around His eyes, the scrapes across His knuckles, laced with the stark threads of new scars. His hair is a little longer, an almost-deliberate dishevelment that suits Him. His fine jacket was a deep, rich shade of navy, a perfect contrast to those clear eyes. He was— _is_ —even more beautiful than Corvo remembers.

And the emotion there, when He saw Corvo…He was gutted. Almost weary with relief.

As if the Outsider had missed him almost as much as he missed the Outsider.

Corvo didn’t even know He was capable of that kind of emotion. But He said it Himself—He must be, now that He’s human.

Well—no, not _He_. Just _he_. The man isn’t a god anymore. He’s just a man.

A man who can use a pair of knives in close combat but freezes at the sight of a live grenade. Who apparently _runs a tavern_. Who’s been hard at work trying to help Dunwall’s least fortunate. Who clearly felt so much remorse at not being able to give Corvo the answers he wanted, when Corvo asked, but who still gave him the truth. Whose body above—and before, below—Corvo’s own was surprisingly muscular.

Void. Corvo did his best to focus on stitching the Outsider’s wounds without gaping at the solid, corded muscle of his arm and shoulder, carved out in stark relief in the light and shadows. The Outsider’s skin was smooth, radiating heat even as gooseflesh rose where Corvo's calluses accidentally brushed. It was so unlike the cold touch he always envisioned.

 _A dear friend_ , the Outsider said outside the bar, half-delirious. _I trust him._

And by the Void, right after that: _I was going to say “brave.”_

A line plucked almost directly from Corvo’s tenderest, most mortifying fantasies. He’s certain the Outsider felt him shiver, an instant, involuntary response, his face burning behind the mask.

Or maybe not. The Outsider was dazed and bleeding. Smoke-addled.

He’s been in Dunwall all this time. Keeping to himself because he didn’t think Corvo would know him. As if Corvo hasn’t spent the last few months twisting himself in knots trying to figure out what he’d done to earn the god’s silence.

And now the Outsider’s just. He’s _here_. He’s _in Corvo’s bed_.

Corvo sighs, frustrated. _No fucking wonder I can’t sleep._

But he isn’t twenty-five anymore. He isn’t going to lay here, giddy with possibility, dreaming of what could happen next. Guest or not, he’s got things he can take care of. Things that might actually quiet his mind.

Corvo sits up, swinging his boots to the floor. He presses the heel of one hand to his eye before blinking into the dark. Then, quietly as he can, he slips over to the desk on the other side of the bed.

He’s lived in this room for only a few months, but he’s long since learned where to step to avoid the creaking floorboards beneath the thick blue rug. The Outsider doesn’t so much as twitch in his sleep. Nor does he when Corvo turns a lamp low and retrieves paper and ink.

He’ll write this note to his contact who has the in with the Hatters, and in the morning, he’ll drop the note in the post. It’ll go to one address, then another, then a third before a courier slips it to his contact by evening. She’s got to have some idea what’s going on; she’s a banker with access to the Hatter’s books. It’s possible she’ll know something about why they did the job in the first place.

He keeps the note brief, or as brief as this particular form of code can make it, which is about four lines longer than the actual message. Which is: _Caps hit a tavern at Charterhall and Barlow—Eyes set it up. Endgame? Will they try again?_

Finished, Corvo folds it up, then sets it in a plain envelope and labels it with the drop address. He sits back, elbows braced on the arms of the chair. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

Ambrose fucking Gideon. As if the High Overseer doesn’t have enough misery to inflict. Just days ago—the morning after Daud showed up, in fact—news came down that the Overseers arrested a member of Parliament. They found a glowing shrine in the man’s boiler room, a crude altar draped in blood-red silk, carved whalebone stacked on top.

His status should’ve been the only unusual thing about the arrest. But the week before, he’d joined a group of other Parliament members on the chamber floor to ask whether the Overseers were cracking down too hard.

The _Courier_ ’s in a snit about it all, and so is anyone paying attention.

They actually brought the man directly to Coldridge, since he was a high-profile arrest with interests beyond the Abbey walls. _That’s where Emily’s going if they catch her,_ Corvo thinks.

He’s got to steer clear of thoughts like that. They’ve been unlucky enough to meet with Gideon and his Overseers three times by now, and Corvo has yet to see anyone look at her with suspicion.

So what in the Void do they want with the Outsider? They still don’t know him; that much is clear. Corvo and Emily both noticed, not long after recovery began, that the Abbey’s every reference to the Outsider, as if by magic, simply became “the profane.” At the time, Corvo assumed it was part of the Abbey’s desire to consolidate every possible heresy—particularly, that of witches.

Now he sees that it’s because things changed in the Void. Drastically. Did Daud twist everyone’s memory so that everyone not Marked just…forgot the Outsider? Does Daud have the power to change engraved stone and brass as well as minds?

If that’s the case, truly—what the fuck does Gideon want with the Outsider? Why send a squad of Hatters to burn down his bar?

 _And why do_ I _still remember the Outsider?_

The Outsider shifts in his sleep. Corvo chances a glance, and from this angle, he can see the Outsider’s face. Dark lashes against pale cheeks, dark brows a little furrowed. His hand is balled in a fist, the blanket between his fingers.

Here, human—he’s so different, and yet somehow…more _him_ than he ever was in the Void. Before, the detached amusement he affected, the casual fascination—it seemed part of a carefully-cultivated persona designed to hold people’s interest, drive them mad in want of more.

Here, he _gives_ that elusive “more,” and he’s—he’s still clever, he’s still fascinated and curious, still wry and dry. There’s something ancient that lingers in his eyes, despite their pale clarity, but the emotion he’s quicker to show has caught Corvo entirely off guard. The painfully human gestures, too. Biting his lower lip in thought. Clenching his jaw. The staring is nothing new, though the color is.

Whatever pedestal the Outsider stood upon before, it’s come tumbling down. And so much the better. Corvo likes that they’re eye to eye. Almost literally—he’s not sure if he realized that he’s got only a few inches on the Outsider. They’d never stood so close. Void, the Outsider had never _touched_ him before tonight—that warm hand on his, a soft, unthinking gesture. The surprising calluses on his palms when Corvo hauled him off the tavern floor—

He’s got to stop thinking about those damn hands.

And anyway, now that the note to his contact is written and done, he can feel exhaustion setting in, weighing down his limbs and his eyelids.

He turns down the lamp and goes back to the sofa. He’ll feel terrible in the morning, but it’s nothing a hot shower and a strong coffee can’t fix. He’s had worse nights.

Corvo glances up over his shoulder one more time to see the Outsider.

He isn’t a dream. For once, he isn’t a dream.

Corvo sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time on AWIBA: the morning, the aftermath, and visits both expected and not


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a lying liarface who lies! the fighty business and sexy competence i promised is gonna have to wait until next week, because i'd rather you all get a shorter yet better-edited chap than a longer but utterly meandering chap. and i want to nail the next one. it is important to me personally. because [spoilers].
> 
> thank you as always for your kudos and comments—seriously, folks, i'm living for them. every last one makes me clutch my hands over my heart. you're all gifts. GIFTS. 
> 
> <3

In the few moments before he opens his eyes, the Outsider feels like he’s floating. His own bed isn’t half so comfortable, the sheets nowhere near as soft. And—he nuzzles deeper into the pillow, ignoring the throbbing protest from his temple. His own bed isn’t laced through with that faint, _delicious_ spice-scent of Corvo.

He opens his eyes slowly. In the blue haze of dawn, he sees that Corvo’s still asleep on the nearby sofa. He lets his gaze drift over the details: Corvo laying on his back, his boots still on, one planted on the carpet. His arms are folded, his broad shoulders and curved biceps filling out his white shirtsleeves, pulling them taut. His face is turned away, his chest rising and falling, slow and steady.

The Outsider used to prickle at what a light sleeper Corvo was. It made it difficult to pull him into the Void—one of the reasons the Outsider started appearing on that sofa in the first place. Easier to come here than for Corvo to go there.

Honestly, it’s a wonder Corvo doesn’t despise him. A wonder that Corvo could care for his wounds so tenderly, look at him with so much relief. Tease him, even. As if they’ve always been friends.

_Is it possible he missed me as much as I missed him?_

The Outsider rolls onto his back and rubs at his eyes, embarrassed. While he’s wishing for impossible things, he may as well wish Corvo would crawl into bed with him. It’s just as damn likely.

_Knock knock knock._

“Corvo?”

It’s Emily’s voice.

The Outsider goes still. Corvo has already flinched upright, braced on his hands as he blinks at the door. His hair is a bird’s nest, dark strands flying every which way.

 _Knock knock._ “Corvo, we’re leaving in twenty minutes. Minister Proudstreet’s going to throw a fit if we’re late again.”

They look at one another. Corvo looks like he’s barely slept. The Outsider is _in Corvo’s bed,_ wearing Corvo’s pajamas. The Outsider sits up, one hand on the blankets, ready to spring up and—Void, and go _where,_ exactly? “Uh,” says Corvo, standing, “I’ll be right—”

“Corvo?” Emily’s tone goes concerned. There’s the sound of a lock turning.

Corvo reaches the opening door just in time to jam one booted heel against the bottom, stopping it as it reaches a hand’s width of open space.

“Morning,” says Corvo, voice scratching. “I’ll be down soon.”

There’s a pause. Then the door gives an obvious nudge against Corvo’s boot.

Corvo braces a hand on the edge and gives an exasperated, “ _Em_ ,” just as the Outsider slips out of bed. His temple throbs. He collects his pile of clothes—still faintly smoke-scented—and dashes quietly as he can for the washroom.

He still hears Emily say, almost conspiratorially, “Do you have someone here with you?”

The Outsider’s face goes scorching-hot.

He doesn’t shut the washroom door completely; the sound of the latch would give him away. He leaves a sliver of space and starts changing as quickly as he can. He doesn’t hear Corvo’s muttered reply, but he does hear Emily say, “Wait—do I smell _smoke?_ ”

“Singed the carpet putting out the hearth,” Corvo says. “It’s nothing.”

The Outsider’s hauling his boots on, trying to do it quietly so he can hear.

“The carriage,” Emily says. “Twenty minutes. Be there. Try not to create a scandal before breakfast, will you?”

And the door snaps shut.

The Outsider releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He’s starting to button his shirt, now. Just before he steps out, he glances back in the mirror.

The bandage over his temple is half-hidden by his hair, which is practically as disheveled as Corvo’s. But taming it would be a mistake—when he leaves, he’ll slip out the window and trek down the roofs. The wind will just blow it around again.

His cheeks are faintly pink, he notes. But there’s nothing he can do about that.

He opens the door.

Corvo—who’s standing in the middle of the room, one hand on his hip, the other in his unkempt hair—turns to look at him. He’s smiling, soft and still a little weary. “Morning. I forgot I was expecting a wakeup call.”

“Thank you for not giving me away,” says the Outsider. His face is still warm. “It’s more than I was prepared to explain before I’m fully awake.”

“You and me both.” Corvo steps toward him. “Can I check your stitches?”

“You don’t have time.”

“Not if you keep protesting.”

The Outsider bites back a smile of his own. “Fine. You—here.” He pushes his hair off his forehead.

Corvo steps in close, his hands gentle as they unstick the bandage and lift it carefully. “Looks good,” he says, now removing the bandage entirely. “We’ll let it get some air. Let’s see your shoulder.”

The Outsider unbuttons his shirt again and tugs his collar aside until his shoulder is clear. He doesn’t overthink it.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway, right up until Corvo’s fingers brush his skin, slipping beneath the bandage that holds the gauze in place. The Outsider grits his teeth. It is so easy, from this close, to imagine Corvo just…pulling the rest of the Outsider’s shirt off his shoulders. Tilting his face up with one broad, beautiful hand—

“Let’s leave this one alone,” says Corvo. He steps back and clears his throat, going to the wardrobe. “It’s a little deeper, and I don’t want to risk it without a clean shirt. Give it another day, I think.”

The Outsider shoves his arm back into his sleeve and starts doing up his buttons again. He hopes his face isn’t as pink as it was in the mirror. “I’ll do that.”

"Good." Corvo's pulling fresh clothes free. “I’ve got to leave, but you don’t have to. My room is yours. Stay as long as you want—this meeting won’t last long. Once I get back, we can go from there.”

“Thank you.” That Corvo would even offer feels staggering. It’s so much more than the Outsider deserves, after so much hospitality already. “But I should get back to the tavern. It’s going to be a mess.”

“Is it safe?”

“The Hatters attacked on a busy night. They’re interested in making a scene for as many people as they can. They won’t bother me without one.”

“Then I’ll be in touch as soon as my contact gets back to me.” Corvo turns to the Outsider, clothes in his arms, a cascade of crisp white and rich indigo. “It shouldn’t take more than a few days.”

 _It’s going to feel like ages._ Now pulling his own jacket on, the Outsider ventures, “You don’t need an excuse to contact me. I told you I was glad to see you.”

The corner of Corvo's mouth tugs up. “Then I’ll see what I can do. Meanwhile, if you still need a place to lay low—I’ll keep the window unlatched. No need to send word. Just come by.”

The Outsider stares at him, astonished at yet another staggering offer. Corvo would let him just—just come back, whenever he needs?

One more second thinking about it, and he's going to say something earnest and embarrassing, something he can’t take back. So instead he gathers himself and manages a scoff, mock-affronted. “You don’t need to keep it unlatched. I can pick a lock.”

“Not these.”

“Emily managed the door just fine.”

Corvo makes a face. “That’s because she’s using her—her _shadow power_ , those—shadow-strands—that _you_ gave her.”

“I suppose I should apologize,” says the Outsider, smirking now. He straightens his jacket, his collars. “Though, strictly speaking, _I_ didn’t give her those shadow powers. The Void channels its magic through the Mark, and it shapes that magic to the bearer’s needs.”

Corvo absorbs that. “Well, she’s always been pert. You certainly didn’t give her that.”

“No.”

They’re smiling at each other. Again. Hands busy without being busy at all.

The Outsider gestures toward the window. “I need to—”

“—so do I.” Corvo nods, brusque. He starts hanging the clothes on a stand near the washroom. “I can help you escape without the guards noticing, if you—”

“I can do it myself, if you don’t mind me slipping out the window. I’ve learned Dunwall’s rooftops well as you now, I suspect.”

“I’ll find you in a few days, then. Probably once it’s dark—don’t want to attract attention.”

“Please do,” says the Outsider.

He’s got a hand on the window sash when Corvo says, “Forgetting something?”

The Outsider frowns, turning back. “I don’t—?”

But Corvo’s already approaching, holding out both of the Outsider’s folded knives.

The Outsider gapes at them, taking them slowly. “I—I thought they were lost in the fire.”

“You were holding one of them when you went down.” Corvo looks a little abashed. “The other wasn’t far. It’s nothing.”

The Outsider tucks them neatly into his belt, their familiar weight steadying. He looks back up, searching the beautiful bottle-brown of Corvo’s eyes. “Thank you, Corvo.”

Corvo nods, turns away. “I’ll see you soon.”

***

When the Outsider arrives, the tavern’s blackened innards are still steaming gently. Standing water from the fire brigade covers the floor. A few neighbors have braved the increasingly drizzly morning to plant themselves in the square and study the wreckage. Their hands perch on their hips as they shake their heads and mutter. Officers from the Watch lurk around the outside of the square.

Tev arrives at almost the same time as the Outsider. As they look the place over, a panel detaches from the lintel and crashes down into the debris.

Tev sighs and turns to the Outsider. “Least _you’re_ all right,” he says. “Your masked friend from last night a seamstress, too?”

“I—what?”

Tev gestures to his temple.

“He has his talents,” says the Outsider, refusing to acknowledge his own warming face. “Any sign of the Hatters?”

“None,” says Tev, frustrated. “And good thing, too. _I_ might start kicking their arses.”

“You won’t have to.” The Outsider glances behind him at the tut-tutting locals. He hopes they’re eavesdropping. “I’ll speak to our attorney this morning. I’m turning the Sea over to you. He'll have the documents—”

“ _What?_ Come on—”

“I’ll help you rebuild, I’ll fund it—but I won’t have the Hatters ruining things again because they think they can use it to get to me.” He’s not sure yet what he’ll do about the fact that he owns the whole building, but perhaps he’ll sort out the Hatters before it comes to that. The Hatters, and the Overseers. He may need to start at the top. “Besides. I thought owning your own bar was your dream.”

“Well, _yeah_ , but I never ruled out sharing it with a decent business partner.” 

The Outsider's heart warms. It’s good to have friends. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s see if there’s anything worth saving.”

There isn’t much. The bar itself is scorched, and the tables and chairs are all but useless. Leather booths are blistered and charred. Many of the brand-new tiles are cracked and crushed from grenades and falling debris, streaked with soot.

The Outsider can find only one silver lining: since the tavern sits on a corner of the building, none of the other apartments or ground-level shops are badly damaged; all the residents are safe. There’s smoke damage, certainly, but by the midday bell from the Clocktower, he’s already got people on the way to take care of it.

Tev and the Outsider—plus some of the staff—spend most of the day picking through the rubbish and making piles of things to discard and things to keep. It’ll be easy for the contractors, coming the next morning, to start carrying it away. The Outsider’s hands are black with soot, his jacket long abandoned, his shirt near sweated through. The cut on his temple stings with sweat; the one on his shoulder isn’t much calmer.

And yet the work is easy, because he’s got his memories to keep him company. He can’t stop thinking of Corvo’s offer to stop by anytime. _My room is yours._ Corvo’s hand braced on his bare shoulder. Corvo’s rumpled hair, and the urge to run his fingers through it.

As the Outsider carries another chair to the rubbish pile, Tev meets him there with part of a singed two-top. “All right, mate,” says Tev, dropping the table, “you have _got_ to tell me why you’re so cheery.”

Even as he feels the mirth drain off his face, the Outsider balks. “I’m not cheery.”

“Don’t give me that shite,” says Tev, but he’s beaming, too. “You’re ear to ear. You have been all morning. Thought I heard you whistling earlier.”

“I was _not_ ,” protests the Outsider, truly hoping he wasn’t. “If I’m ear to ear, it’s because I’m about to take a break.”

He tries to put Corvo out of his mind. He’s got more immediate, more threatening things to parse.

Why _are_ the Overseers targeting him if they don’t know who he is—or rather, who he was?

It’s going to require more nights up on the rooftops to get to the bottom of this. He’s got to track down the Hatters who attacked and question them. Or maybe Corvo’s contact will have something for him, and it’ll save him the trouble.

There’s that feeling again, that rush—new paths and possibilities unfolding wherever he steps, a thousand different directions the next few days—months, years—could go. Corvo knows him, wants to help, wants to see him again. The Outsider doesn’t have to live another minute in a world where they aren’t friends.

***

The next two days are much the same.

It’s beyond tempting to trek back to Dunwall Tower each night, but the Outsider is determined not to run from the neighborhood. Like he said: the Hatters are interested in causing a scene. They won’t attack him alone in his apartment.

Which he was surprised to find completely undamaged, if reeking of smoke. It seems as though his protective bone charms actually work. He leaves the windows open during the day to air the place out. He’ll get the smoke scent laundered out of his clothes and linens once it’s out of his apartment.

The legal documents and deeds go through. The Outsider and Tev make a show of the Outsider handing over his keys out front, neighbors looking on. It’s a near-useless gesture, since there’s still no front door, but the alley and lobby exits still lock. And hopefully the neighbors spread the word about who's in charge at the Call of the Sea.

That night, just as they’re winding down, Tev waves the Outsider into the kitchen. It’s mostly intact, if charred, and still half-strewn with the detritus of being abandoned in a panic mid-shift. “There’s someone out back who wants to see you.”

Out back means the alleyway, just on the other side of the kitchen door. And since it’s dark— _it’s Corvo,_ the Outsider realizes, heart leaping. “Good. That’s good. I was expecting—thank you. Go on, Tev. No need to stick around.”

“Are you sure? What if they're—”

“I’m sure. I know them. And I know it’s a fight night.”

Tev grins. “Will I see you there?”

Depends on what news Corvo can share. Whether Corvo is interested in sticking around. If he is…“Probably not.”

“Shame,” says Tev. “See you tomorrow, then.”

The Outsider wants to dust off his hands, but there’s nowhere to do it besides his own clothes—which, so far, have avoided the soot stains of the previous few days. At least his sweat-damp hair won’t show the soot; he quickly pushes it out of his eyes.

At the door, he pauses. _Pull yourself together,_ he thinks. _He’s only a man._

Only a man who knows him better than anyone else in the Isles. Who cared for him without a second thought. Who let him sleep in his _bed_. Who offered to leave his window unlatched.

The Outsider hauls the door open. “I was wondering when you’d—”

But the woman across from him is _not_ Corvo.

It’s the Hatter who gave him Ambrose Gideon’s name.

She’s leaning against the brick side of the adjacent building, her gloved hands hidden in the crooks of her arms. Her newsboy cap shadows half her face. “Expecting someone else?”

Disappointment crashes through him, followed by surprise, curiosity—wariness. He reminds himself that his knives are ready at his belt. “What are you doing here?”

“I need help. And I heard you’re trustworthy.”

“From who?” He knows bullocks when he hears it.

“A mutual friend with black eyes.”

 _Daud._

Maybe he _doesn’t_ know bullocks when he hears it.

The Outsider looks at her gloves with renewed interest. She watches him right back, waiting, daring him to deny Daud, but—he’s intrigued. More surprises, more paths he hadn’t expected. He stands aside in the doorway.

She glances around, then comes inside. By now, Tev and the staff are gone. The kitchen will work for a private meeting. Soon as the door’s shut, the Outsider says, “Did he Mark you?”

“I couldn’t wait to accept.” She peels down the edge of her glove, showing him the sharp black lines against her skin. Slashes, spots, one jagged bolt. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Then what?”

“First I just—I need your promise you won’t rat me out to them. The Overseers. The other Hats.” She cradles her elbows in her hands and searches his eyes. “Just promise me.”

The Outsider leans back against the prep station, keeping his face carefully blank. “You have my word. If you knew me, you’d know that’s worth a lot.”

She nods. “Then that’ll have to do.” She adjusts her hat, takes a breath. “I don’t know where to start.”

“The beginning,” suggests the Outsider. “You work for the Overseers?”

“Well—some of them. They don’t get in our way if we report back to them. Same goes for the Watch.”

He isn’t surprised. The City Watch has always been corrupt to its core, attracting small, empty men addicted not to justice, but to their ability to terrorize others. Overseers aren’t much different, though at least they have _some_ pious recruits in their number.

“It’s always worked like that,” she says. “But these new Overseers—Delilah’s coup has them spooked. I don’t need to tell you how hard they’re cracking down.” She closes her eyes. Her left hand flexes. “But they found out about my Mark. The only reason I’m not rotting in a cell in the High Overseer’s office is that they decided I’m more useful as an informant. Someone to plant heretical evidence when they can’t do it first.”

The Outsider realizes his own hands have balled into fists. That Daud would let this happen to one of his Marked—it’s unconscionable.

Although…didn’t he do the same, for so long? Stamped his chosen and let the chips fall? Regret and understanding war it out in his heart, as bitter as the smoke he can still taste on the back of his tongue.

But it’s like he told Corvo. Regret and guilt aren’t enough. Maybe this woman can give him a way to start making another change.

And anyway, Daud sent her to the Outsider. Maybe Daud _isn't_ content to just let those chips fall.

“What do they want with me?” the Outsider asks. “Do they think I’m one of the occult?”

She glances him up and down, one brow arched. “You? No.”

“Then why attack me?” He gestures behind him, to Tev’s ruined tavern. “Why burn down the bar?”

“They’re afraid of you,” she says simply. “You’re changing this whole area without needing them at all. The residents of this district are finally running it again. Shops are thriving. None of the landlords will raise rent. The Overseers are getting too spooked to keep up their raids here. That madcap brawler who springs out of the shadows and attacks them—they think you hired him.”

_They don’t know it’s me._

“They don’t want other districts getting the same idea—that they can thrive on their own terms. They’re trying to find out how your coffers are so deep.”

 _If they’re looking for my source of income, I need to warn Lettie Vainglass._ His banker, and his first stop in Dunwall so many months ago. She’s capable of taking care of herself—his Mark saw to that—but if she keeps an eye out, so much the better. “What will they do next?”

“Wish I could tell you. We get our orders just hours before the next job.”

“But they’ll try again?”

“You aren’t rotting in an Abbey holding cell, so. Yeah.”

He mulls this over. So they still don’t know who he is. Or rather, was. That _has_ to be true. If they did, they wouldn’t send Hatters. They’d send an entire battalion of Overseers. He looks back at the woman. “Where’s my help come in?”

“I want out,” she says wearily. “They’re holding my mum captive. She only stays alive because I do what they tell me. It’s the same for another half-dozen people they’ve got running jobs for them.” She scrubs a gloved hand down her face. “I just—she lives around here. Or she did, before they took her in. She was finally making enough that she might retire. And now _this_ happened, and…I know you’ve got connections. Maybe there’s a way you can—I don’t know. I just want to feel safe again.”

The Outsider wonders how much of this is a trap. If she’s been put up to this—maybe by the same Overseers she wants protection from. The Hatters failed to bring him in, so perhaps they’re trying something different. Perhaps...there’s a thousand perhapses. But from everything he knows, everything he’s learned, he can hear the truth in her story.

And anyway, given a few nights perched on the roofs, he can find the truth for himself.

“If they’re having you run so many operations for them,” he says, “they’ve got to have evidence of it. No one can keep their hands completely clean when there’s so much to track.”

“I’m sure Gideon’s got a whole system,” she mutters. “He’s the mastermind. Bastard.” She looks angry enough to spit. “They brought me to him. He made me give him a demonstration of my power. I should’ve just used it to cave his head in right there, but they already had my mum.”

“Let me see what I can find out,” the Outsider offers. If he can find proof Gideon's using his power for such obvious ills... “There may be something I can do. At least for your mother.”

The woman nods, relieved. “Right. Uh. Her name’s Ellie Comber. I—I’m Ava. I’ll be off.”

“Find me again in a week,” says the Outsider. “I can tell you what I’ve learned.”

He stands at the top of the back steps to watch her disappear down the alley.

 _This_ is new. Different. _Interesting_ , even if the High Overseer wants him brought in. He wishes he didn’t enjoy it so much, the thrill of knowing things he shouldn’t—

Someone steps out of the shadows across from the door.

The Outsider flinches backwards, hands crossing to pull his knives free, but then a steel-and-wire face glints in the kitchen light, and Corvo’s lifting his mask away and letting his hood fall back.

The Outsider barely catches his breath. “Corvo.”

“Just me,” Corvo says, hands out and palms down. In the glow coming through the door, his eyes practically shine. “You should be more careful of eavesdroppers.”

The Outsider grinds a hand over his pounding heart. He’s just now remembering that the kitchen windows—vents, really, set near the ceiling—were open to help air the place out. “I didn’t think anyone else was listening.”

“No one ever does.” Corvo smiles, a guilty crook to one corner. “I’m sorry I startled you. I should’ve announced myself.”

“No, no, it’s—” The Outsider’s smiling now, too. “I doubt I’ll forget to close the windows again. Would you like to come in? There’s not much of the place left, but…”

Corvo follows him into the kitchen, tucking his mask away, unbuttoning his greatcoat. His hair’s neater than it was the other morning, but only just. “Your stitches look good,” he says. “We can probably pull them out in another day or two.”

The Outsider resists the urge to touch his temple. _We_ , Corvo said. _We_ can pull them out. “I’ll rely on you for that,” says the Outsider. He hopes to the Void he isn’t blushing, and frantically changes the subject. “So you heard everything?”

“I did. She confirmed what I’ve heard, too, but.” Corvo glances around. “Not sure if we should talk about it here.”

“I think you’re right about that.” Even if they shut the windows, the whole front of the bar is open. It’d be easy for someone to hide in the debris.

“Any idea where we could go?”

“Hm.” They need someplace quiet. The alleyways won't work; the Outsider has proven again and again how easy it is to overhear conversations with no one being any the wiser. And he won’t bring Corvo up to his apartment; the place is so sparse that Corvo would think he’s a heathen. Or he’d worry, which is worse.

But maybe they don’t need silence. Perhaps what they need is _noise_. Lots and lots of it.

“I know somewhere,” the Outsider says. “But it’s crowded.”

“That’ll work. Noise can cover a conversation just as well as an airtight room.”

“Good. Although—it’s possible you could be recognized. I don’t know if you…”

Corvo pulls a flap of his vest aside. A barely-there, soft blue glow emanates from one of the pockets. A bonecharm. “It’s supposed to make me unrecognizable to anyone who doesn’t already know me personally.”

Impressive. “A complicated carving,” says the Outsider. “The base is—what, time and defense?”

“Exactly.” Corvo pulls it out of his pocket, holds it out. “No one should recognize me unless they’ve known me more than two years.”

The Outsider takes it, careful not to touch Corvo’s palm, and holds it up to the kitchen light. It _is_ a complicated little sigil.

It’s also wrong.

If Corvo wants the timeframe to be two years, the time sigil is missing a few parts.

“You can tell me,” says Corvo. “How badly did I botch it?”

The Outsider laughs. “It’s not unsalvageable. I can fix it, if you like.”

“Go ahead.”

The Outsider finds a clean paring knife in the kitchen clutter, small but sharp. He sets the charm on a clear section of the prep station, then presses the very end of the knife into the existing sigil, making swift and sure changes. He glances up to find Corvo watching him closely. His face heats, but he says what he meant to say: “I can make it five years.”

“Yes, that’s—you can do that?”

 _Finally_ , it’s the Outsider’s turn to quirk a brow at Corvo. “Should I remind you who first shaped these sigils from the mire of the Void?”

Corvo blinks at him, then realizes—and covers his face with one hand. It’s not enough to hide his rueful grin. “No need.”

The Outsider adds another mark, then another. The charm hums beneath his hands, the call of the Void sweetly intoxicating.

When he looks up, finished, Corvo tears his gaze away from the Outsider's work. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad to help,” says the Outsider, holding out the charm. “You should let me double-check your collection sometime. Especially since some of the others are as complicated as this.”

Corvo doesn’t accept or reject the offer—just pins him with an amused, questioning gaze.

Why…?

Oh. Oh, damn and shite, as Tev would say, of _course—_ Corvo never had his carving kit on his desk during any of their visits. Never carved a single mark in the Outsider’s presence. The charms he’s picked up around Dunwall are simple things, not worthy of that comment about complicated sigils.

The Outsider’s just admitted to looking in on Corvo when Corvo wasn’t aware.

He swallows hard, mortified. “I should’ve—”

“I know you watched me.” Corvo, apparently entirely unbothered, plucks the charm from the Outsider’s fingers and tucks it away. “You watched everyone. Probably wasn’t much else to do. Except invent sigils, apparently.”

There’s no chance Corvo would be half so forgiving if he knew everything the Outsider’s seen. “Even so. I never should’ve—”

“I know.” Corvo’s eyes are locked on his, intent. His smile has gone soft and lovely. “It’s who you were before. And I’ll take you up on that offer to check my work. Void knows it could use someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”

The Outsider’s jaw bobs, entirely unsure how to handle such easy absolution. “I—then I will.”

Corvo nods once, satisfied. “So. To business. We should compare notes. Where’s this noisy place we’re going?”

The Outsider shakes off his shame. If Corvo wants to brush past the moment, then so will he. “Let me get my jacket,” he says. “How do you feel about downmarket lager?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time on AWIBA: I PROMISE, _I PROMISE_ , you'll get: if it’s your first night at fight club, you HAVE to fight (feat. the red-carpet arrival of my competency kink), plus how our boys (separately) handle (>_>) the aftermath


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember that scene in fleabag where the badass business babe was like “[men] create wars so they can feel things and touch each other”
> 
> yep
> 
> (and oh my god, i love the bejesus outta all of you, every last one of you, you’re making this such a joy and i’m so grateful)
> 
> <3

When the Outsider gestures them down the alley that leads toward the fighting ring, Corvo takes two steps into it and then stops, staring. His smile grows. Before the Outsider can ask, Corvo says, “I’ve been here before. But it’s—Void. It’s been years.”

Some distant part of the Outsider must have known Corvo’s fought here. He certainly knew Corvo had fought in spaces _like_ this—dim, dirt-strewn, ale-scented. But after so long in the Void, one illegal underground fighting ring tends to look like another. Uncertain, the Outsider says, “We could go somewhere else.”

“No, no—this is perfect. Loud.” Corvo looks golden in the lamplight, pleased. “Let’s go.”

The people guarding the cellar doors down to the ring greet the Outsider like old friends. “Hey, it’s Nameless! Thought you ate dirt when your bar did—” “Tev’s got you beat by twenty minutes, he’s probably lost his whole coinpurse already—” “Gonna get in the ring tonight, Nameless?” They open the doors.

“Not tonight,” says the Outsider, grinning as noise pours out of the ground. “Just here to drink.”

As they descend the stairs, Corvo leans close, and the heat of his voice ignites a wave of gooseflesh down the Outsider’s shoulder: “You’re one of the fighters?”

He pretends to be offended. “Just because I flinched in a shootout doesn’t mean I can’t manage hand-to-hand combat.”

It reeks of ale and sweat, as usual. And it’s crowded as usual, too, the room mostly full except for the ring at the center. The Outsider sees his own name—or lack thereof; it’s _NAMELESS_ in blocky capitals—near the bottom of Cal’s leaderboard. That’s a step up from nowhere near it at all. He’s started climbing the ranks. He’s a long shot, but he’s a shot.

The Outsider can’t help but feel a rush of pride as people recognize him, clasping his hand, fretting about his and Tev’s bar, calling hello to his new friend. He greets them by name and tells them about Tev’s new solo management, promising they’ll reopen again. _See,_ he wants to tell Corvo, _we can both rebuild a life from nothing_. They get an ale each and find a spot in the crowd to watch a fight about to start.

“I’m impressed,” Corvo tells him. “I never would’ve guessed…”

“That I brawl for fun?” The Outsider raises his ale for a sip.

“Well, yes. But it’s clearly more than that.” Corvo nods at everyone around them. “You’ve become a fixture of the community.”

“Suppose I have.”

Up by the ring, Julian—the referee—clangs the bell. This fight’s between Meat-hands Monty and Volette, a redheaded freckled woman with twice the Outsider’s muscle mass. As they start circling one another, the crowd picks back up to a steady roar of shouts and cheers.

It’s perfect, as cover goes. Still keeping his voice low, the Outsider says, “You said you learned something?”

“I did.” Corvo drinks, then leans marginally closer. “Most of it you’ve heard already. The Eyes want you, and they’re using dirty tactics to keep their grip on the area.”

“Yes.” The Outsider shifts his own body a bit nearer. No one else around them is even glancing their way. “What’s the part I haven’t heard?”

“Whenever they run bigger jobs, the money changes hands the day before. So we’ll get warning before something like that happens again.”

Anxiety unclenches from around the Outsider’s heart; muscles in his shoulders unlock that he hadn’t even realized were tense. “I—I’m relieved to hear it.”

“Figured you would be. Next time, I’ll get word within an hour of the exchange. We’ll work from there.”

There’s that _we_ again. The Outsider keeps his eyes on the ring, where Volette is chasing Monty across the dirt. “I don’t suppose there’s any hard evidence. Of that, or anything else they’re doing.”

“Just word of mouth.”

So, useless. “No names in the ledgers, I take it.”

“All aliases.”

The Outsider drinks again. “But surely hard evidence does exist.”

“It must. They’re running too many stings—taking in too many people—to do this on whispers alone.”

The Outsider thinks of incriminating journals and audiographs he’s seen people tuck safely away, only to find themselves exposed later. Among them, one notable former High Overseer. “So if we could find a way to snag that evidence…”

“…we could dismantle the whole operation,” Corvo finishes. “Remove anyone it implicates.”

“Might be a long list.”

“Good.”

The Outsider looks at Corvo, surprised.

Corvo shrugs. “You know me. I was always wary of them, even before—everything. Whatever we do, we’ll need to find a way to help that woman’s mother.”

“You think we could do both?” The Outsider turns back to the fight. “Save her, collect enough proof?”

“Yes. But we should run it up the chain first.”

The Outsider is surprised again. “I find it hard to believe your daughter will want to intervene.”

“She’ll listen, at least. She might even know where to start.” He adds into his ale, “Legally.”

The Outsider grins. “Then let’s ask her.”

“Tomorrow,” says Corvo, just as the roar of the crowd peaks, then starts to ebb. Fight’s just ended; Volette’s put Monty directly on his ass. “The schedule’s clear after dinner. She’d hear you out.”

“I can do that.” _I’m going to see Corvo again tomorrow._ “Have you told her about me?”

“No. Thought you should have a say in when she finds out.”

 _It sounds like we’re having an affair,_ thinks the Outsider. _Like we’re about to tell her we’re seeing one another._ “You can tell her. Probably should, before I arrive.”

“Oi, _Nameless!_ ” It’s a cheery Tev, working toward them through the crowd, ale sloshing out of his own pint and onto unwitting shoes. “I didn’t think you’d come!” Staggering to a halt beside the Outsider, he clanks their tin mugs together. “And _you_.” He looks Corvo up and down, then points with his free hand. “Don’t tell me. You’re the masked man from the other night.”

The Outsider’s heart somersaults, and from the looks of it, so does Corvo’s. _Could the bone charm—?_

“Oh, don’t look so caught out,” Tev chides happily. “That mask hid your _face_ , not those—” he spreads his hands, more ale sloshing. “—colossal shoulders. Why wear a mask at all, anyway? Worried people might not faint in fear when you go by?”

To the Outsider’s relief, Corvo now seems nothing but amused. “It’s useful,” he says. “I should’ve asked its engineer for a friendlier version.”

The Outsider near chokes on his ale. Corvo grins into his.

“Yeah, seriously,” says Tev. “Get your money back. But I’m grateful—seems like you took good care of my friend here after all.”

“I’m just relieved you don’t have to make good on your threat.” Corvo’s eyes shine. “Whatever you would’ve figured out.”

As Tev laughs, the Outsider stares at Corvo yet again, flabbergasted. Has he ever seen Corvo this at ease? Smiling, of course; cracking wise, certainly. But this lightness is new. He can’t look away.

Tev nudges the Outsider and gestures at the ring. “So you’re fighting tonight, right? Gonna show everyone you aren’t defeated by some pissbrain Hatters and a little fire?”

“For once,” says the Outsider regretfully, “I’m just here to drink.”

“Oh, come on.” Tev looks over at Corvo again. “What about you, mate, you and those shoulders look like you could clobber half the board here. Certainly had no problem hauling Nameless out of our burning bar. You ever fight in a ring?”

“I used to,” says Corvo, almost wistfully. “It’s been awhile. I’m starting to think I’ve missed it.”

“See,” says Tev, “so you know exactly what it’s like. Maybe you can convince our friend.”

Corvo lifts a brow as he looks the Outsider over appraisingly. “I am curious to see what you’ve got.”

“ _Ohhh,_ ” says Tev, grabbing the Outsider’s shoulder, “is that a challenge? Wait, wait—are you going to fight _each other?_ ”

“Hey, what?” One of the tavern regulars who followed Tev leans toward them. “Is Nameless fighting this guy?” He brandishes his ale at Corvo.

“Not quite what I meant,” mutters Corvo, but he’s still cheery. He glances at the Outsider like he’s asking for permission.

Now the Outsider can’t look away fast enough.

“You _know_ it’s a good idea,” says Tev, looping an arm around the Outsider’s overheating neck. “He’s your friend, yeah? So he’ll be careful of your stitches. You _know_ Meat-hands wouldn’t give two shites about that. Probably reopen ‘em for you, no charge.”

Corvo shrugs one shoulder. A clear, _I’d do it if you would._

The Outsider feels warm all over. Fighting Corvo, in front of all these people— _I_ _’d have to touch him,_ the Outsider thinks, a little hysterically. _I’d have to touch him in front of everyone. He’d have to touch_ me. His heart is in his throat when he ventures, casually as he can, “I wouldn’t mind. I’d like the chance to learn from an expert.”

“ _That’s_ generous,” Corvo protests.

Another tavern regular leans in, crowing, “Is Nameless getting in the ring?”

“He’s going to fight his friend!” Tev says. “Hey—go sign them up with Cal, will you?”

“ _Yes_.” The regular rubs his hands together. “What’s your name, lad?” This is addressed to Corvo, but it’s the Outsider who freezes, because oh, _no_. Corvo obviously won’t give his real name, but even giving a pseudonym means that this fight is actually happening, and—

“Carver,” says Corvo, without hesitation.

“ _Carver!_ ” hollers Tev, and then so do the others, and the Outsider says, “You absolutely do _not_ have to—”

“I want to,” says Corvo. “You were outnumbered the other night. I want to see how you do one-on-one.”

The Outsider forces himself to shrug, as if he could take it or leave it. “Then let’s fight.”

In twenty minutes, they’re ringside, shedding their outer layers. The Outsider only just catches Corvo slipping the bone charm from his coat pocket to his pants pocket, and then from an angle no one else could’ve seen. He both dreads and hopes that Corvo will take off his crisp, closely tailored white shirt, but Corvo keeps it on, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his sleeves. The high collar gapes open at his throat, showing off the elegant lines of his clavicles, cut through with one long, thin, diagonal scar, and—the Outsider gulps—the starting slope of his pectorals. Corvo starts stretching his triceps, one arm stretched long, the other hooked underneath.

As usual, the Outsider’s down to his sleeveless undershirt. He can feel eyes on the stitches at his shoulder as he bounces on the balls of his feet to get his blood moving.

As if his heart isn’t already hammering.

“Remind me of the rules?” Corvo asks Julian.

“The bell starts the match,” says Julian. “No boots to the face, no throat shots, no groin shots. You get knocked out, I ring the bell. If you’re on the ground more than five seconds—both knees, arse, back, whatever—I ring the bell. Ignore the bell, and you’ve got a lifetime ban.”

Corvo nods. “Easy enough.”

“Then square up, the both of you.” Julian gestures them through the dirt and dust, toward the center of the ring. As they go, the crowd hollers, noise building, Tev and the tavern-goers at the front. “Kick his arse, Nameless!” one of them yells, while someone else hoots, “That older fella’s gonna tear him apart.”

“Oi, _shut it_ ,” barks Tev in response, laughing and flailing an arm at them, but he turns back to the Outsider and calls, “Remember—don’t get stuck in your head.”

The Outsider nods. He _does_ tend to overthink his fights, constantly trying to calculate his opponent's next move, and the move after that. It slows him down. Tev and Monty are always giving him guff about it. _Stop predicting. Start reacting._ He’s best in the ring when he’s operating on nothing but instinct and adrenaline.

In position now, he sets one foot in front of the other, knees slightly bent and slightly loose. He always looks his opponents in the eye at this point, but with Corvo, it isn’t evaluating as much as it is incinerating.

Corvo’s eyes are focused and sharp, his brows low. His hands lift, his fists relaxed, his guard exactly where the Outsider learned to put his own. And there’s Corvo’s crooked smile again. He’s already enjoying this. The effect is something predatory.

And dry-mouthed as it makes the Outsider, he forces himself to release a long, slow breath. To center himself.

He hasn’t been training all these months to become prey.

His nerves settle. His heartbeat steadies. As his focus sharpens and his own hands come up, the clamor of the crowd begins to fade from his ears. He meets Corvo’s eyes, confidence rising in him like the tides, and knows he looks every bit as deadly.

 _I won’t win,_ he thinks. _But I’ll learn. And whatever skills Corvo has, these people are here for me. I’ve got their strength, too._

_This is just another fight._

Julian rings the bell.

Though they circle each other, Corvo holds steady. He’s not going to make the first move, exactly like the Outsider knew he wouldn’t.

 _My offensive attacks need work, anyway._ He’ll just need to be careful of his hands, since he didn’t bring wraps.

The Outsider darts in with a jab. Corvo brushes the Outsider’s fist away like it’s a gnat, then punches into the open space. The Outsider barely steps back in time, but Corvo follows with a series of hits, _fast_. The Outsider blocks them frantically, only just stopping them, and the second he steps back too far, Corvo plants one heel and snaps the other out.

The Outsider manages to grab Corvo’s boot and absorb most of the impact in his palms, but he’s still shoved backward hard enough that the noisy crowd catches him and shoves him back upright again.

Corvo’s biting back a rueful smile, his eyes apologetic now, hands and stance back to neutral. He keeps a bit of distance. He’s barely out of breath.

The Outsider moves in, throwing punches, trying to see the openings ahead of time just like Corvo always does. They dance across the dirt as Corvo blocks, ducks, blocks again, wrenches around so they don’t run into the crowd, and the Outsider follows. When the Outsider’s latest swing goes wide, Corvo comes in with an elbow.

Except Corvo’s shoulders project the whole move ahead of time. The Outsider blocks it easily, but he’s lost the offense. He scampers back across the ring now, looking for an opening and deflecting or dodging hits as Corvo follows. When a block leaves the Outsider’s guard wide-open, Corvo’s knee snaps up to fill the space. The Outsider barely snaps his forearms together in time to block the hit; they strike just above Corvo’s kneecap with a solid, muscled _thump._

Corvo backs off to circle him, his brown eyes glinting with warmth, with humor. He’s finally starting to break a sweat.

The Outsider, panting hard as perspiration slips down his neck, watches. _It’s a wonder I can block any of his hits at all, let alone that I’m still standing._ Someone as skilled as Corvo—the Outsider should’ve gone right to the dirt.

Maybe the Outsider really is getting better at this.

Although...no. If he was better at this—better enough to hold his own against Corvo—he’d be at the top of the leaderboard, not the bottom.

Wait. Wait, now that they’re circling each other, and the Outsider has a moment to think—

It _is_ a wonder that he can block any of Corvo’s hits.

If the Outsider is blocking Corvo’s hits, it’s because Corvo’s _letting him_.

The realization nearly drops his jaw. Corvo is calculating every single move of this fight—his _and_ the Outsider’s, so he can put the Outsider exactly where he wants him. He’s sussed out the Outsider’s skill, and he’s operating just beneath it, just enough to let the Outsider hold his own.

Some distant part of the Outsider knows he should prickle at that. Instead—damn it all, he can’t help but be astonished. He knew Corvo was talented, that Corvo could plan his moves in advance, but by the Void, not like this.

And this is Corvo holding _back_.

It’s been just seconds since they started circling each other. The Outsider’s surprise must show on his face, because Corvo gives a half-tilt of his head, a half-rise of one shoulder. The Outsider can practically hear him say it: _Can you blame me?_

The Outsider hasn’t improved by practicing on people who go easy on him. He sleeves the sweat off his forehead, then lowers his chin, narrows his eyes, and smirks. He taunts, “Is that all you’ve got?” _Stop holding back._

Corvo’s brows lift and lower. “Why don't you come and find out?” _Are you sure?_

He's certain. He's desperate to learn more of Corvo's movements, how Corvo's so _fast._ The Outsider wades in.

But it’s no different than before. Blows traded and brushed aside, hits grazing here or there but never connecting.

Frustrated, the Outsider grits, “You’re still holding back on me.” He rushes in again, and at the last moment, extends his arm to brace it across Corvo’s sternum and bring him to the ground, exactly how Corvo protected him from the grenade the other night.

But Corvo just pushes the Outsider’s elbow straight up and twists away beneath it. As the Outsider’s momentum carries him past, Corvo catches the Outsider’s wrist in one hand and shoves _down_ on the Outsider’s shoulder blade with the other.

The Outsider’s knee bangs the ground, the other knee up and braced; Julian won’t start counting yet. The muscles in his arm burn, twisted up behind him, though Corvo’s not hurting him—not even close. But the Outsider can’t remember how to get out of this hold. His lateral movement is gone, thanks to the angle of his arm, and he—

Just above his ear, Corvo murmurs, “Not doing it for you.”

His racing mind grinds to a halt. _What does that even—?_

Across from him, just a few meters away, the crowd is seething; some at the front are shouting. _Get up! Kick his arse, Nameless, come on!_ Every eye in the place is on the Outsider, all his neighbors’ fears and hopes and joys coming right at him in a wild, inebriated panorama. He realizes suddenly that they’re taking up a chant, too: _Name! Less! Name! Less!_ Tev and the tavern-goers are loudest of all.

 _Not doing it for you,_ said Corvo.

In a rush of surprised adrenaline, the Outsider understands.

Just as it clicks, he locks eyes with Tev—who’s now frantically tapping his own temple, then cutting his hand down in a swift, sharp gesture. _Don’t get stuck in your head._

Right. Right! _Use your instincts._ And all his instincts—they came from Corvo.

He’s only here because he's been copying Corvo's attacks and defenses, putting them into practice for months, pulling them from the library of his own memories. He knows exactly how Corvo fights, because it's how the Outsiderfights, too. He doesn't have to think about it. He already knows every movement.

Which means he knows every countermovement, too.

He shuts his eyes for one brief second, letting every last scattered thought melt away.

Then he twists his wrist in Corvo’s grip and grabs Corvo’s forearm. With his other hand, he reaches back over his head, grabs a fistful of Corvo’s starched shirt at the shoulder, and _throws_ himself forward into a roll. Corvo, caught, hurtles over him. The Outsider releases him just in time for Corvo to catch himself in the dirt, where Corvo rolls gracefully back to his feet as the Outsider lurches to his.

Their clothes are covered in dust; Corvo rakes one hand into his hair to give it a quick and thorough shake, which—the Outsider goes dry-mouthed again. Corvo is _tousled_ now, his chest heaving, sweat at his clavicles and his temples and the back of his neck, where his hair is starting to curl. He’s grinning, and the respect shining in his eyes near takes the remaining air out of the Outsider’s lungs.

He drags it back in, forcing himself to stay focused. “I understand now,” he pants, just loud enough for Corvo to hear. “But I can do it. Don’t hold back.” He gestures with his fingertips, inviting Corvo closer. “Come on.”

Still, Corvo looks dubious.

The Outsider’s head is clear; his heart is full. There’s nothing in the world except for this fight. Except for him and Corvo. He feels the corner of his mouth tug up. He doesn’t recall ever asking anything of Corvo, not directly, but now he says, “Trust me.”

Corvo comes at him like a hurricane.

The Outsider doesn’t think. He just lets every memory put his hands and arms exactly where they need to be, at exactly the right moment. Predicting isn’t going to help him here, because Corvo is already ahead. But the Outsider can watch, he can react, and by the Void, he’s actually doing it. 

The crowd is hollering loud enough to bring down the house. From the corner of his eye, the Outsider can see Tev gaping, hands on his head.

 _Time to end this_. Defense is wearing him down, and though he can keep up, there’s no chance of going on the offense. If Corvo meant to throw this fight to please the crowd and therefore, presumably, let the Outsider win, the Outsider has no idea how it’s going to happen now. He might as well try it himself.

To do that, he’ll need to find the right moment to use Corvo’s attacks to his own advantage.

When an elbow comes in from on high, the Outsider sees his chance. He dodges it, steps into Corvo’s wide-open guard, and hooks one of Corvo’s ankles with his own to trip him, hip briefly against hip.

It clearly surprises Corvo, which means Corvo reacts exactly how the Outsider hoped: automatically. Corvo moves in a blur; the Outsider's center of gravity wrenches backward as his shins are swept out from beneath him.

The Outsider crashes to the dirt, flat on his back. The crowd bellows, _ONE._

For a split second, Corvo’s eyes flare wide in panic, apology— _Void, he really was about to let me win—_

_TWO._

But the Outsider was ready for it. He grabs the back of Corvo’s boot and _yanks_.

Corvo topples flat to _his_ back, and then the Outsider’s heaving himself up, lunging forward, twisting a hand into Corvo’s shirt to keep him down. He rams a knee against Corvo’s right arm then seizes the left one, grip locking tight around Corvo’s wrist. 

_ONE._ The crowd starts the count over again; he barely hears it. _TWO—_

Corvo stares up at him, inches away. _THREE._ They’re both breathing hard—gasping, really—and Corvo’s mouth looks soft, _biteable_ , his pupils dilated despite the lights directly overhead. Sweat shines at the dip in his throat, flexing as he makes a show of trying to throw the Outsider off him. _FOUR._ The Outsider is struck with the urge to straddle Corvo’s hips and kiss him senseless, right here—

_CLANGCLANGCLANG._

It’s Julian, hammering on the bell. The rest of the cellar—the ear-splitting clamor, the _people_ , the dirt, the ale-stench—it all crashes back down on the Outsider so hard that he flinches, looking up in surprise as the tavern-goers rush the ring.

Tev pulls him up, keeping his arm in the air and walking him around the ring like a winning show pony while the crowd roars. Monty gets Corvo to his feet. Coins trade hands as they’re shuffled off the pitch and into the sidelines. Everyone wants to talk to them. Everyone wants to shake the Outsider’s hand. He and Corvo find seats on stacked crates nearby, leaning on their knees to catch their breath. Tev and the others press cold ales into their hands and excitedly recount the fight blow-for-blow.

When he and Corvo are at last alone again, the Outsider drinks deeply of his ale. He has no idea what to say. He’s equal parts aroused and exhilarated and exhausted, the stitches at his shoulder throbbing, and—

Still panting a bit, Corvo says, “The other night. Remember I was saying you can learn to turn the game in your favor? Even if you’re overwhelmed?”

The Outsider's still panting, too. “I remember.” In vivid detail.

“Yeah. You've already learned. You know exactly how.”

The Outsider lowers his ale, baffled. “I do not. I don’t know the first thing—”

“You’ve just got to surprise your opponents,” says Corvo. His eyes are shining again. “Which is exactly what you did out there. You think you could’ve taken me down otherwise?”

Blinking, the Outsider says, “That’s—wait.” He rubs at his temple, the one without the stitches, fighting his growing smile. “So you were _still_ holding back at the end.”

Corvo's jaw bobs, caught. “I mean, you’re still relatively new to this, I wasn’t about to—” and, over the Outsider’s indignant spluttering, he protests, “I held back _less_. But I wasn’t about to trounce you in front of your people. I really did plan to let you win, until you used my own instincts against me. Completely threw me off. And then down.”

“Well,” the Outsider grumbles, exaggerating his wounded pride, “at least I had _some_ say in it.”

“I am sorry about that.” Corvo ducks his head, suddenly sincere. “I wanted to get you on board before we fought. Didn’t get the chance. But everyone here—I didn’t think they could watch you take another loss.” He looks back up at the Outsider, wincing like he’s asking for forgiveness. “They needed you to win.”

“I realized that late.” The Outsider has to turn away from Corvo’s soft eyes. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_. I haven’t had so much fun in—” Corvo’s brows shift, a little self-deprecating. “It’s been awhile.”

“We should do it again,” the Outsider suggests before he can overthink this, too. “Maybe not _here,_ but I’d like to keep learning.”

“I’d be glad to spar with you.” Corvo straightens up, rolling his shoulders. There’s a teasing smirk growing at the corner of his mouth. “Though you’re already more proficient than I would’ve guessed. Remind me where you learned to fight like that?”

The Outsider laughs. “You know damn well where I learned to fight like that.”

Corvo laughs, too. “It was like looking in a mirror.”

“A slower, clumsier mirror, maybe.” The Outsider takes another drink, relieved that the ale is so bracingly cold tonight. He presses his wrist against the chilly condensation on the tin. “But yes. That would be—I’d like that. To learn how to surprise people more consistently.”

“Then we'll do it,” says Corvo. "I'll teach you that, and you can help me fix my amateur sigil work." He holds his mug closer to the Outsider’s. "Deal?"

Heart warming, the Outsider clinks his own mug against it. "Deal."

They stay for another hour, drinking and carousing; the Outsider’s practically holding court, the way people continue to stop by to shake his hand and talk about the fight. Tev and Monty, rejoining them, are all too happy to grill Corvo for pointers.

It’s after midnight when the Outsider and Corvo leave the cellar and ascend into the cool night air. Outside the alley, they pause. The route to the Tower will take Corvo to the left; the Outsider’s apartment is off to the right.

“So tomorrow evening,” says Corvo. “Eight o’clock?”

The Outsider had nearly forgotten the reason they came here in the first place. That he and Corvo made plans to bring their information to Emily. “Shall I use the public entrance this time?”

“Yes. I’ll tell the staff to expect a businessman for an urgent meeting on heightened gang activity.”

The Outsider nods once, formal. “I’ll be there. Don’t forget to tell your daughter about me.”

“I’ll tell her.” Corvo is devastating in the golden streetlight, his hair tousled, his smile fond. “Good night, then.”

“Good night, Corvo.”

Void. It still thrills him to say Corvo’s name.

The Outsider makes it back to his apartment. He makes it through his nightly routine, he even makes it through shimmying out of his clothes and crawling into bed, all while trying to think of anything, _anything_ , but the fierce gleam in Corvo’s eye during that fight. The respect. The solidness of his muscles, the surety in his hands. His confidence.

He links his fingers behind his head, under the pillow, ignoring the way it pulls at the stitches on his shoulder, still throbbing a bit, and tells himself he isn’t going to do this. He isn’t going to reach into his smallclothes and replay that entire fight—

Afterward, when he lifts his face from the pillow where he stifled that final long, involuntary groan, he closes his eyes and stews in the guilt.

Corvo may admire the Outsider for making a few moves in a fighting ring, might want to work with him, but that doesn’t _mean_ anything—not in the way the Outsider hopes. They’re close friends, and they both have precious few of those. The Outsider could never, _would_ never, risk that friendship. Corvo _just_ came back into his life. He won’t drive him away again so soon with something as ridiculous, as trivial, as infatuation.

And he won’t do this again. This time, he means it. “You have got,” he says aloud, “to stop—”

*

*

*

“—doing this.” Corvo mutters it to himself from one rooftop to the next. He still has no idea how he kept from going iron-hard during—and even after—that fight. He’s certainly losing that particular battle now. “You are not doing this. Don’t even think about it.”

But by the time he climbs back into his rooms, it’s a lost cause.

He barely lasts a dozen strokes.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groans one last time, slumping back against the sofa. He already felt deliciously wrung-out from the fight. After this, it’s a different kind of wrung-out altogether, the kind that usually leaves him with a pleasant ache in his thighs the next day.

Except now he feels like an ass.

The Outsider isn’t just some distant, impartial figurehead, shimmering into existence whenever he feels like it and no sooner, who wouldn’t give a fig for what or how people thought of him.

He’s human. He’s Corvo’s friend. One of Corvo’s only friends.

But he’s so _strong_. His finely-cut clothes hide incredible muscle and strength, almost fully on display without his jacket and overshirt. Tight curves of muscle, shadowed valleys and lighter rises of it across his shoulders and down his arms, sweat shining against his throat. Narrow hips, powerful legs. They’d have to be, all the rooftop climbing the Outsider does. He tossed Corvo over his shoulder like it was nothing. The way he held Corvo down—

A flicker of arousal bursts through Corvo again, almost painful in the comedown. “Damn it,” he hisses. He needs to get a leash on his own desires. He tries to think of tedious, meandering reports in code—he even throws in a sneer from Ambrose Gideon—until he’s breathing properly again.

As he cleans himself up in the washroom, he tries to face the reality of it. Even _if_ the Outsider returned his feelings—and that’s such an impossible leap, he feels ridiculous for even entertaining the thought—they could never be together. Everything Corvo does is the public’s business. The press and gossipmongers would never let him live down the fact that the Outsider doesn’t look that much older than his own daughter. And the Outsider would never stand for public scrutiny in his daily life, nor all those raised brows and never-ending whispers. And Corvo—tidied up now, he grips the sink, bowing his head. He doesn’t have the strength to navigate another relationship he’d need to hide.

And anyway, things turn to shit the moment contentment finds him. That’s just his life, that’s how it’s _always_ been. This wouldn’t be any different.

Tomorrow, when the Outsider arrives at the Tower, they’re going to work as friends and colleagues. Corvo will be perfectly polite. Distant, if he can. The servants will suspect nothing, and neither will Emily. Most importantly, neither will the Outsider.

The man is a fallen god, not a potential partner to take to bed or make a life with.

The sooner Corvo gets that through his head, the easier this investigation will be.

He’s just climbed into bed, just set his head on the pillow, when it reaches him: the faintest whiff of smoke, and beneath it—eucalyptus. Expensive bath salts.

Fuck. It’s been days; he’d hoped the Outsider’s scent would’ve faded by now. If Corvo’s got to spend another night breathing him in, as though the Outsider is _here_ , with him—

Corvo hurls the pillow across the room and falls asleep on the other side of the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i listened to the back half of [this](https://youtu.be/0fwr1weVb-0) on repeat to write that fight so you have to listen to it too and feel just as fucking overblown and dramatic about it as i did. 
> 
> we’re starting to get into the territory of my draft where stuff isn’t as thoroughly edited as the rest. to keep chapters coming out, they may be shorter (im thinking in the 2K range rather than ~4K+). thanks for hanging in there with the inconsistencies! 
> 
> anyway
> 
> next time on AWIBA: BFF squad activates, emily is suspish, Plot & Intrigue™


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally cannot leave these two alone in a room with each other anymore, what the fuck, get it _together_ and/or just _bang_ already, _god_
> 
> warning for more stuff relating to stitches on wounds, and handling them.
> 
> meanwhile i’m beside myself with glee that you all enjoyed last week’s fight scene as much as i did. thank you, as always, for tellin me about it. thank you for literally any way you are interacting with this fic. love you alllll!!!
> 
> <3

Surprise of surprises, Emily is actually pleased to see him.

The moment he steps past Corvo and into her office, she's on her feet, crossing the room to get to them, exclaiming over him the whole time. She grasps his hands with her gloved ones; she scolds Corvo for not telling her days ago. She searches the Outsider’s eyes with her own, wide in undisguised wonder. She actually reaches out and smooths at the lapel of his jacket. “He’s fashionable, too,” she says to Corvo, impressed.

“I’m—thank you?” The Outsider is dumbfounded at this reception. And relieved. He’s had no trouble imagining that Emily might be a good deal less welcoming than Corvo.

And, fine—he’s also relieved because he _did_ fret about what to wear for a royal audience. He’d taken all of his things to his launderers this morning, because every stitch of clothing he owns still smelled of smoke. Then nothing seemed appropriate for a formal visit to the Tower.

He’d changed half a dozen times, stewing in self-loathing ( _Once the emissary of the Void,_ he thought, _now a blushing virgin before a first date; oh, how we’ve fallen),_ until at last he decided on a deeply blue waistcoat and jacket. Nothing stuffy—just neat. He found a steel-gray pocket square he’d never used and folded it into the jacket, then tried to shine up his slightly nicer pair of boots.

But it seems he needn’t have bothered. Corvo and Emily are more dressed-down than he would’ve guessed. And no wonder—it’s the end of the day, after all. Corvo wears dark trousers with a matching vest, which hangs open over a slate-gray shirt, slender cuffs buttoned to the wrist. Emily’s long, familiar coat lays discarded over the back of her chair, her cream-colored shirtsleeves rolled.

She gestures the Outsider into one of the two leather seats in front of her desk. She offers him a brandy. Apparently he’s retained centuries of royal etiquette, because the acceptance leaves his lips automatically. She pours one for him, for herself, and for Corvo from a square, sharply faceted decanter.

Emily raises her glass—heavy tumblers that match the decanter—and the glowing desk lamp casts sparkling-gold light on every edge. “To the Outsider,” she says, “because none of us would be here without him.”

He wants to protest, but protesting _isn’t_ royal etiquette, so he murmurs his thanks and drinks.

The brandy is _good_. It’s rich, _complex,_ more notes rising out of it with every passing second. So much more expensive the stuff they kept at the bar. _I’ll have to track down a bottle for Tev._

The three of them spend some time just reminiscing about Emily’s days in Karnaca. The Outsider finds himself telling Emily how glad he was to see her follow in her father’s footsteps—that is, as bloodlessly as possible.

“You always seemed so surprised at that,” Corvo tells him. “We can’t be the first Marked who didn’t just—immediately tear everything down.”

No, not the first. But the first in eons. “I _am_ surprised,” the Outsider admits. “I’ve Marked gentler people than the both of you, and watched them claw their way to fortune over the piles of corpses they built. But you—all that newfound power, and you still made it as difficult as possible for yourselves. You refused to let it separate you from your integrity.”

Emily smiles into her brandy, a gently teasing look.

The Outsider finds his face heating. “What.”

“I’m sorry.” Now she’s positively beaming at him. “You’re just—before you got here, I almost didn’t believe Corvo. But whatever doubts I had, they’re gone. You just used your Void-voice.”

How many times in a single week can he feel so _flustered?_ “I—I don’t have a _Void-voice_.”

“Yes, you do,” says Corvo, but he says it so fondly, all crooked smile and twinkling eyes. “Not often, but it happens.”

“I can’t believe it.” The Outsider hides his own eyes with one hand. He’s holding back a smile, too. “You’re both ganging up on me. Though I suppose I deserve it.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Emily says, then gestures broadly with her brandy glass. “So tell me: where have you _been?_ ”

The Outsider tells her. Most of this won’t be new to Corvo, who’s leaning against the bookshelves that line one wall of the office, facing both of them. He watches, adding commentary here and there. His shoulders look so _broad_ in the Outsider’s peripheral vision

Not that the Outsider notices. He told himself that he’d put a stop to this nonsense.

He’s not noticing Corvo the same way he’s not noticing the fading ache in his muscles, which spent the day reminding him of every single moment in that fighting ring last night. He wonders if Corvo feels the same aches. If he, too, was distracted by them today.

_No. No! This is exactly what I said I wouldn’t do._

The Outsider ignores Corvo and focuses on Emily’s questions, her occasional quips. She’s sitting kicked back from her desk, her chair hovering on its hind legs, one boot braced against the heavy, ornate wood as she listens. It reminds him how _young_ she is. For all she’s grown and changed since the coup, her stifled youthful impulses still need room to run free.

He doesn’t mind; he’s glad she actually feels at ease around him. He tries to look just as relaxed, pretending that having Corvo at the corner of his eye isn’t making him overthink every move. He leans back in his seat, steadying his brandy on the arm of the chair.

When the Outsider tells Emily about the Overseers hiring Hatters to do their dirty work—and the extent to which they’re doing it—her chair hits all four legs again. She sets her brandy on the desk, her brows high with surprise.

“I’m doing everything I can,” the Outsider says, at last winding down. “But on the scale they’re operating—I can’t do it alone.”

“Thank you for bringing this to me.” Emily leans her elbows on the desk, folding her arms into them. “You’re not the first to express concern over the increased raids. You _are_ the first to tell me the Overseers are blackmailing and press-ganging the Hatters into helping them pull it off. And that they’re—what, putting out hits on small business owners?”

The Outsider says wryly, “I don’t think they meant to kill me, if it helps your impression of them.”

“It doesn’t,” Emily and Corvo say at the same time.

The Outsider would laugh, but now that it’s all been said, everything laid out at the Empress’ feet, he feels strangely vulnerable.

“I want to help,” Emily says. “I want to put a stop to it. But I don’t know how much I can do.”

There it is, then. Corvo _did_ say he wasn’t sure how much Emily could do, legally speaking. The Outsider looks at his brandy and tries not to feel disappointed over something he didn’t expect anyway.

“The problem,” Emily continues, “is that the Overseers are still seen favorably. They were the only ones who fought back against Delilah’s witches. They’re adding a statue of Yul Khulan to Holger Square next month. The reason we even _have_ a new flock of Overseers in Dunwall is because Parliament voted for it with an overwhelming majority. Just last week, they voted in a budget increase for the Abbey. I’m sure you heard what happened when some of the detractors spoke out against it. And the raids.”

“Minister Forsythe is still at Coldridge,” the Outsider says. One of the tavern gossips spoke of it—the night the bar was attacked, actually—and then the next _Dunwall Courier_ he picked up confirmed it. “I heard.”

“But hope isn’t lost yet,” says Emily. “If you can bring me proof, I’ll call a public meeting with Gideon. Void—I’ll do it on the floor of Parliament.”

“That’s the issue,” says Corvo. He braces one hand on the ledge behind him, where the bookshelves turn into cabinets. “We don’t have proof. Not yet.”

Emily frowns. “Don’t you have contacts with Abbey connections?”

“I did,” says Corvo, grim. “Before the coup.”

“What about the woman who came to you,” Emily says, turning back to the Outsider. “Do you think she’d testify against the Abbey?”

Ava barely had the confidence to speak to him from the shadows. “Not while her mother’s still in Overseer custody. Even if she agreed, she’s a Hatter. I doubt any aristocrat would listen past the litany of her other crimes.”

Emily turns to Corvo again. “The contact you already reached out to. You said they have records of Overseer-Hatter deals in their ledger.”

“Only under aliases,” Corvo says. “Untraceable.”

“Damn it.” Emily lifts both hands to rub her temples. “I miss Yul Khulan. This never would’ve happened under him.”

“He wasn’t much better than Gideon,” mutters the Outsider, and instantly regrets it as Emily’s eyes widen. He hurries to cover his tracks. Sort of. “True, Khulan didn’t plant evidence and strong-arm gangs into filling the Abbey’s heretic cells. He followed the strictures in his personal life. But he turned away from plenty of corruption in his ranks, and he kept word of it from you to protect the Abbey.”

Emily’s gaze darkens. “His council always seemed wise.”

“It was.” No question there. “He guided you toward decisions that helped bring up some of Dunwall’s most impoverished after the plague. But it doesn’t change the fact that the Abbey has been rotten at the heart since long before you were born. Yul Khulan, flawed though he was, was the exception, not the rule.”

“I believe it.” Emily sighs, long and tired. “And you’re right—it _is_ rotten at the heart. That’s the only way it could produce someone like Ambrose Gideon. The greasy bastard.”

Corvo snorts.

Emily lifts a brow at him. “Not going to scold me for speaking ill of our so-called allies?”

“ _Well_.” Corvo shrugs, jaw bobbing, before he says, “He _is_ greasy.”

Encouraged, Emily turns back to the Outsider, gesturing to her own hair. “Pomade,” she says. “A bottle’s worth. He’s _drenched_. But you probably knew that already.”

“I didn’t, actually.” The past few years in the Void, so much of his attention was on Dunwall. He usually made it a point to learn who at the Abbey had it out for him, but he’d stopped giving people like Gideon his attention. “I’m not sure I’d recognize him if I saw him.”

“Hair’s slicked straight back,” says Emily. “And he’s got a face you want to just—” She connects her palm to her fist. “You’ll know him.”

“All right,” says Corvo. If he’s attempting to scold this time, it's half-hearted at best. “That’s where I draw the line.”

“ _That’s_ the line?” the Outsider asks, jumping on the chance to tease. “Thinking about pummeling a greasy bastard?”

“ _Thank_ you.” Emily levers her open hand at the Outsider, now mock-glaring at Corvo. “There’s no harm in it! It’s not like I’d _actually_ punch him in the face. Much as I’d want to.”

“No, obviously not," says Corvo. "But if you get used to mocking him here, it’s bound to come out in front of him.”

"Or," says the Outsider, "if she gets it all out here, she'll have nothing but pleasantries for Gideon when they're face to face."

"Exactly." Emily gestures at him with her whole hand again. "I knew we'd make a good team."

"Emily." Even with the warmth beneath it, it's clear Corvo's exasperated. 

“Fine,” Emily mutters. To the Outsider, she says, “But trust me, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about when you see Gideon.”

He smirks, trying not to imagine how exactly that might happen. “I’ll be sure to report back.”

Corvo clears his throat. “So I guess we’re at an impasse, when it comes to the Overseers.”

Right. To business once more.

Emily winces at them both. “Without Parliament’s support, my hands are tied. I want to do something to help. I do. But the coup wasn’t that long ago. If I try to overstep my power so soon after getting it back—if Parliament sees me making the same kinds of moves Delilah did, especially against the organization that tried to stop Delilah in the first place…”

The Outsider almost pities her. The ways nobles have to twist themselves and their logic simply to survive—it’s no wonder hardly any good people make it through ennoblement with their principles intact. “Empress,” he says, aiming for careful but knowing he sounds like he’s bloviating from the Void again, “don’t forget: you represent the people. Not Parliament. You bowing and scraping to their whims is everything they want out of an Empress.” He tries to smile encouragingly. “You've cooperated with them so far. There’s room to challenge them. Or at least stretch your power in the peoples’ favor.”

Emily’s brows are up again, but fortunately, she seems pleased. “You know,” she says, “if you ever get tired of running a bar, there’s a job waiting for you here as one of my advisors. Any day you want to start—you let me know. The pay’s decent.”

It takes him so aback that for a moment, he’s speechless, his face warming again. He glances at Corvo, uncertain if it’s genuine—or even allowed—but Corvo’s looking at Emily with pride in his eyes. When his gaze returns to the Outsider a second later, it’s soft and lovely and welcoming. _Of course it’s genuine. Of course it’s allowed_.

“I—I’ll keep that in mind," says the Outsider. “Thank you. But truly—you’d do well to challenge Parliament in the peoples’ favor.”

“I’ll take that under consideration.” Emily downs the rest of her brandy. “But remember that the harder I push on the Abbey, the more they’ll push on me. And with your Mark…” she waggles the fingers of her gloved left hand. “As useful as it is, if I want to stay in power, I can’t push hard enough that they’ll get suspicious of ulterior motives.”

Yet another variable to consider. He’d almost forgotten.

“So,” says Emily, “Corvo, if your contact can bring me proof—or Outsider, if your people will testify—then we’ve got a way forward. Meanwhile, I can look into ways to gather support against the Abbey, but until their favor dies down a little more, I don’t see how we can get Parliament on our side. And we _will_ need them on our side eventually, if we want the Abbey to change.” Emily lays both palms flat on her desk and looks at them both. “I want to stay. But tomorrow’s another early morning.”

“I understand,” says the Outsider. They’ve taken enough of her time already; he’s surprised to find how much the clock hands have moved. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Listening is literally the least I can do for you, after all you’ve done for me.” She rises, and so does he. He half expects her to wave off the formality, but she doesn’t. Good—he takes that as a sign that she really has grown into her role. “And by the way.” Now she’s sorting through a stack of correspondence at the edge of her desk. “I thought you’d want to know.” She hands the Outsider a folded letter. “Billie Lurk is going to be in Dunwall next week.”

Delighted, he takes the letter. “She is?”

“She sent word ahead. Apparently her new ship is a little slow. But it seems like you two became good friends, so consider this your official invitation to join us. Just an informal gathering. Like this—” Emily waves an arm at the office. “—but dinner.”

He’s skimming the letter, quickly. _—business to attend to—an old friend—_

He wonders, suddenly, if Billie’s coming to Dunwall for _him._

Daud may be satisfied bothering Corvo and leaving the Outsider alone, but he doubts Daud would keep himself hidden from Billie. He’d certainly be able to keep Billie updated about the Outsider’s exploits if she asked. What had she said at the pier, before she left him? _I’d come back if you sent word._ No, he hasn’t sent word, but if she found out Hatters burned down his bar and the Overseers put a target on his back, she’d come charging into the harbor. They grew close, those few days in Serkonos, and then those few weeks they spent on that ship.

“Outsider?” says Emily.

He looks up. “Yes—yes, of course I’ll join you.”

“Good.” She smiles, coming around the desk to clasp one of his hands. “Though you don’t have to wait for an official invitation to come by next time. You’re welcome here at the Tower whenever you like—I mean it. I’m sure Corvo’s already said the same.”

The Outsider bites back a smile as he glances at Corvo, who reacts with a look that can only be described as _caught_. _I’ll leave the window unlatched_ is more or less the same as _you’re welcome any time_ , isn’t it? “He has,” says the Outsider, just as Corvo says, “I did.”

Satisfied, Emily releases him. “Good night, then,” she says. As she brushes past Corvo, she touches his shoulder. The door snaps shut behind her.

“Well,” sighs Corvo, running a hand down his face, “I guess we’re no better off than when we started.”

“Only if we want to deal with the bureaucracy,” the Outsider points out. He leans a hip against the desk as he sets Billie’s letter aside. He’s not sure if he should sit back down; the meeting’s over, officially, so he should probably leave. Except Corvo doesn’t look ready to dismiss him. “But we—it _is_ late. We can always continue this discussion another time, if you…”

“I wouldn’t mind hashing this out a little more.” Corvo shrugs, not looking at him. “I’m not as worn down as Emily.”

“Neither am I. Not worn down, that is." The Outsider can't resist bringing it up: "I’m still more sore than I’d like.”

Corvo grins. “I’ll agree with you there. Surprised you didn’t dislocate my shoulder with that throw.”

“And I’m surprised you didn’t break my ribs with your knees,” the Outsider huffs. His Hatter-pummeled ribs haven’t been tender for a few days, but this morning, he felt the ache in his muscles beneath the fading bruise. “For someone holding back, you were certainly ready to do damage.”

“I was totally in control,” Corvo protests. He pushes off from the bookshelves. “But let’s talk. And—actually, while you’re here, why don’t I take your stitches out.”

 _I’m going to have to let him in close_ —“By all means.”

“Let me fetch my kit.” Corvo’s heading for the door. “I’d invite you up, but…”

“Trying not to scandalize the staff,” says the Outsider. Somehow he sounds calm. Casual, even. “I remember.”

Corvo nods. “Back in a moment.”

Alone in the office, the Outsider takes a moment to breathe deeply. He reminds himself, yet again, that Corvo is his friend, and he _will not_ risk that friendship. When Corvo takes those stitches out, his mind will be carefully, perfectly blank.

To distract himself, he studies Emily’s impressive bookshelves. The collection has grown since he last looked in on it from the Void, during the coup. Extra shelves have been built into the wall to hold them all. He sees history, science, philosophy, fiction both classic and contemporary, dime novels and literary magazines. A magnificent collection of atlases. There’s a shelf dedicated entirely to the history of Dunwall. He tilts his head to read the titles, letting his fingertips trail along their spines.

If only there was a book that could tell him exactly how to find the proof he needs to rein in the Abbey. _How to Blackmail Blackmailers,_ perhaps. Or, _When You’re a Target: How to Stop Being One Even If You Feel Like It Was Probably Inevitable._

Well, here’s a book about the Abbey. And beside it—his fingers pause. This volume is tall and slender, Dunwall-blue, with its title stamped in gold serif: _For the People: The Design, Construction, and Evolution of Dunwall’s Public Buildings and Spaces._

 _Maybe…._ his heart skips. No, no, no, it’s ludicrous to even think it, but—if he had something like this to guide him…

 _Maybe I don’t have to_ find _proof. Maybe I can_ take _it._

And if anyone could advise him on the specifics, it’s Corvo.

He pulls the volume free and opens it on Emily’s desk.

*

*

*

Corvo’s glad to have a few minutes alone as he goes to fetch his tin of first aid supplies. It’s been a strange few hours.

The Outsider arriving at the Tower was nothing short of surreal. He was just— _there_ , in the entry hall, straight-backed and sharply dressed, his hair neat, pushed to one side and hiding most of his stitches. The lack of panic from the staff, even though for once, the Outsider truly was walking among them…it was utterly bizarre, that this should be so mundane.

Corvo worked to _keep_ it mundane. He doesn’t need his thoughts all in a tangle whenever he sees the man.

But then Emily insisted on pouring them all brandies, as though this was a _party_. Corvo was fascinated, watching the two of them fall into an easy camaraderie as they reminisced about Karnaca. Whatever distant, impartial entity the Outsider was before, he’s not that now, and Emily seemed just as willing to accept that as Corvo was.

He’ll blame the brandy for the way his eyes kept catching on the shine in the Outsider’s hair, strands of gold among raven-black. And the way the Outsider’s tailored jacket pulled a little tight across his shoulders, which, after last night, seemed so much more broad than Corvo ever noticed. Also the way he was still thinking about the weight of the Outsider above him, pinning him hard to the dirt—

At that point, he caught himself staring, and flicked his gaze back to Emily.

Who had eyes on him already.

 _She knows_ , Corvo thought, trying to look focused instead of startled. _She knows how I feel about him. She must._ It wouldn’t be that much of a leap in logic. Emily said it herself that one evening in the throne room, not long after the marble melted away and Delilah vanished into her own brushstrokes: _The Outsider talked about you. I got the feeling He missed you._

Chafing at the silence from the Void, Corvo had responded bitterly.

Like a spurned lover.

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t feel anything other than friendship toward the Outsider, and he’s going to go out of his way to prove that. To himself, _and_ to Emily. He’ll be perfectly cool and distant. It’s no different than keeping himself from snapping during the most frustrating council meetings. Or from slugging Ambrose Gideon in his exceedingly punchable face.

Now, he returns to Emily’s office to find the Outsider leafing through a large book open on her desk.

Void. So much for keeping himself cool and distant. The Outsider’s hands catch his eye immediately, elegant and strong, with such a light touch on every page.

Corvo shuts the door. “Find something interesting?”

The Outsider looks up. His eyes are clear green in this light. “I had an idea,” he says. “Well—not an idea. More a thought that _could_ be an idea, if…” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Now that I’ve got to say it out loud, it sounds ridiculous.”

“It can’t be that bad.” Corvo drops the tin on the desk and stares down at the book.

It’s open flat to a colorful, detailed diagram of Holger Square. The Outsider turns the page, revealing an intricate floor plan of the ground level of the Office of the High Overseer.

Corvo looks back at the Outsider, startled. “Are we breaking in?”

“Not _we_.” His throat bobs. “I was thinking of doing it myself. We need evidence before we can help anyone. It’s not going to just fall into our laps, so either I let Ambrose Gideon keep crushing Dunwall under his boot—I let more people get carted off to heretic cells—or I go in there and take the information we need.”

This is nowhere _near_ what Corvo expected. But he can’t say it’s a terrible idea.

“I know this sounds ludicrous,” says the Outsider. “But everything I’ve seen, and the things I’ve learned—I’ve got a good chance.”

It’s been a few months since Corvo was last there, and before that, even longer—years, since Yul Khulan preferred to come to the Tower for his visits. Corvo isn’t as familiar with the Office as he was during the rat plague. But he and Emily have another visit coming up next week. If the Outsider wants to break in, Corvo could take a closer look from the inside and learn what he can. And—Void, why just from inside? Holger Square is surrounded with other buildings that look directly in on the place. Corvo could easily use those rooftops to gather information. And then he and the Outsider could break in and break out without anyone knowing.

But the Outsider mistakes his silence for disapproval. “Corvo,” he says, and it’s so soft that heat crowds up under Corvo’s jaw, swift and startling. He turns away and busies himself with the tin of first aid supplies. “I have to do this,” says the Outsider. “I told myself I’d never again stand by and watch if I could help instead. Until Emily realizes she has the power to command Parliament, this is my best way forward. It’s long past time to act.”

“I agree with you,” says Corvo. He’s cleaning his hands with a cotton pad and antiseptic. “But you’re going to need more than a good chance.” He doesn’t look up. “I’ll go with you.”

“You—you will?”

Corvo has to look up at that, and the surprise gilding the Outsider’s green eyes, the hope—Corvo feels off-balance, like shingles sliding out from beneath his boots. “This isn’t a one-person job,” he says. “It’s not a two-person job, either, but I can’t imagine recruiting anyone else.”

“Then we should go soon,” says the Outsider. “True, neither of us are Marked, but I have bonecharms that can silence footfalls, and I—”

“Hold on.” Corvo’s smiling now. “You can’t just burst in with a handful of bonecharms and a cartload of gumption.”

“Can’t I?” the Outsider asks, wry.

“It might work for picking a few Overseers off the street, but not this. And—here. Come on. Stitches.” The Outsider takes a step closer, but a shining flop of hair still covers his temple. “Hair,” says Corvo, gesturing. _Cool and distant._

“Right—sorry.” The Outsider combs his fingers into it and holds it up out of the way.

The stitches _have_ healed nicely. Corvo’s proud of his handiwork; it’s neat and tidy. He dabs more antiseptic against it, then picks up the small, sharp set of scissors that came with the tin, and a set of long tweezers. “Anyway,” says Corvo, gently pulling the knot at one end of the stitches, “no, you can’t just burst in. That’s asking to get caught.” He snips the thread, then uses the tweezers to pull the whole length of it loose and free.

The Outsider splutters a terrifically undignified “ _Guh!”_ and flinches back, visibly shuddering from head to foot as he claps a hand over his temple.

“I know,” Corvo says, trying not to laugh. He drops the thread in the open lid of the tin. “Not pleasant.”

“Putting that _mildly_.” The Outsider glares at Corvo’s hands. “It didn’t hurt. Just…”

“Strange,” says Corvo. “Believe me, I know. Shoulder?”

“Damn it,” mutters the Outsider, “I’ve got to do that a second time?”

“Technically _I’ve_ got to do it.” Corvo concentrates on saturating another pad of antiseptic while the Outsider shrugs off his jacket, then unbuttons his shirt partway and pulls his collar aside. No dropped sleeve this time, thank the Void.

But the stitches look agitated. Corvo frowns. “Was this bleeding again?”

“You may recall we were brawling last night.” One corner of the Outsider’s mouth is turned up. “It did the wound no favors. But it doesn’t hurt much.”

“Let’s leave them in awhile longer. Looking like that, I’m surprised they didn’t break.” Corvo puts his things away. “Do you have supplies like this at home?”

“Uh.” The Outsider grimaces, pulling his shirt straight. “Does hundred-proof alcohol and gauze count?”

“No. Well, the gauze, yes. But here.” He hands the Outsider the little bottle of antiseptic. “Dab it with this twice a day. Keep it covered until it stops oozing.”

The Outsider makes a disgusted face, but he takes the bottle. “Thank you.” He pulls his jacket back on. “You were saying? About breaking in?”

Corvo flips the tin shut, then goes to lean into the bookshelves once more. “Like you said: neither of us are Marked. So we can’t just waltz into a heavily-guarded compound without planning. We do that on Ambrose Gideon’s turf, and we’ll be lucky if we live to regret it.”

The Outsider clenches his jaw. “I suppose you’re right.” He lowers himself onto the arm of one of the leather chairs. “What do we do instead?”

“We take the time to learn exactly what we’re up against.” Corvo nods toward the open book. “Every possible route in and out—from the building, and around Holger Square. We’d need to find out when the building is least staffed, then learn the guard rotations and where exactly everyone will be at any given time. And a dozen other details that’ll make the difference between staying hidden and getting caught.”

“How do we do that?”

“Holger Square is fenced in with buildings we can use as vantage points. We spend a few days and nights up on those rooftops, and we’ll have a better idea of how to get in and out. And where we might look to find the information we need.”

“And if it’s something Gideon just keeps on him?” asks the Outsider. “Like Campbell and his black book?”

Corvo shrugs. “Then we’ll stake out his house and do the same thing.”

The Outsider considers this, his eyes distant, downcast. “This is going to take time.”

“A week, at least. Two or three, ideally.”

The Outsider gulps. “I fear that may give them enough time to attack me again.”

“But we’ll know,” Corvo reminds him. “Remember, my contact’s going to get word in advance. You’ll have plenty of time to protect yourself. And the people around you.”

“I suppose that’s true.” The Outsider looks up at Corvo. “You’re really going to do this for me? Or—or with me?”

 _As if I could say no, when he says things like that_. “What are friends for?”

The Outsider huffs a laugh. “They’re certainly not for breaking into Overseers’ offices to steal evidence.”

Corvo finds himself smiling broadly. “This time, they are. Yes, of course I’ll help you. Gladly.”

The Outsider nods once, decisive. “Thank you, Corvo.”

Corvo nods right back. “Let’s get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> say it with me, my man: we are gonna OWN this bad boy
> 
> next time on AWIBA: [danny ocean voice] first task: reconnaissance, even more goddamn pining, tev why didn’t you _say_ so


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god I can’t believe _corvo_ is technically the riley poole to the outsider’s ben gates, what a world
> 
> anyway, welcome to tropey-trope-trope town, USA, population: me. there's really no excuse for what this chapter became after all the shit i finagled and deleted and rewrote and finagled again, ahhh [hides face]
> 
> have i said lately that i love all of you? because i love all of you. so freaking much, i can't even express. thank you for squeeing with me over these two losers.
> 
> <3

“Damn it,” mutters the Outsider, squinting. “I can’t tell if that’s a combination lock, or if it takes a key.”

Corvo, crouching, comes closer. “Where?” The chilling darkness of his mask is at odds with the warmth of his voice.

The Outsider points. “The safe. Third window from the left. Past Gideon’s desk.” Their shoulders brush as Corvo sights down the Outsider’s arm. They’re so close that the Outsider can hear the metallic click of the mask’s lenses focusing. Corvo’s faint, masculine spice-scent reaches his nose through the kerchief.

“Combination lock,” says Corvo, sitting back. He scribbles another line in the pocket-sized notebook he’s brought along. “Good eye.”

“You’re the one with the built-in spyglass.” The Outsider’s glad for the kerchief; if he’s blushing, Corvo can’t notice. Not that Corvo could notice anyway, since it’s dark, and cloudy besides, no moon or stars in sight. The only light comes from the floodlights that beam up the sides of the Office of the High Overseer, illuminating the pale gray stone in cold white light.

He and Corvo are perched just across the street from the south side of the building, four stories up on a flat rooftop surrounded by a meter-tall brick barrier. It makes excellent cover for peering in the windows to reconnoiter Ambrose Gideon’s own office.

This is only their second night scouting _in the field_ , as Corvo called it. Last night, they looked in on the eastern side from above. The three nights before that, the Outsider was at the Tower so he and Corvo could study the volume he found.

Though its floor plans of the Office weren’t quite as detailed as an official construction blueprint might be, there was plenty to go on—and anything missing from the illustration was detailed in prose. They took the time to memorize it all, supplementing it with annotations of their own.

“Should we really leave a paper trail?” the Outsider asked, the first time Corvo started making notes.

“Using code,” said Corvo, handing him a page. It didn’t look like code—it looked like a letter to a friend.

Or it would have, if the Outsider didn’t already know how to decipher it. He handed the page back. “Is it really that important to know the number of bunkhouses out back?”

Corvo blinked at him, then started a slow-growing smile. “If we get cornered there, we’d need to know how much cover stands between us and the river.”

The Outsider sighed. “Suppose you’re right.”

“Is that another result of your boredom in the Void?” asked Corvo. “Devising runes became dull, so you learned the languages of espionage?”

“Not just espionage.” The Outsider leaned back in his seat on the other side of Corvo’s desk. “There was a time when I knew almost every language. Not that it was necessary—the Void made it so I understood everyone, and could be understood. But it was easy to pick things up, after watching for so long.”

“What was—” Corvo looked away, shook his head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”

“I don’t mind.” It’s so rare that people were ever curious about _him_ , and not what he could do for them. “I told you the other night you can ask me anything.”

“I was going to ask about your native tongue.”

 _Not_ what the Outsider was expecting. It threw him completely off guard. “It’s—it was an old Pandyssian dialect. The world's long forgotten.”

Corvo’s eyes were bright with interest. “And you?”

For all he’d tried to forget everything else about his brief life before his long journey into eternity, the Outsider felt an odd sort of duty to preserve his first language. "I can still speak it."

“What does it sound like?”

For a moment, the Outsider’s jaw bobbed, debating. Then the words poured from his lips: “ _Cor meum tuum est, vos non scitis_ _._ ”

_My heart is yours, and you can never know._

“What’s it mean?” Corvo sounded hushed. Awestruck.

The Outsider clapped his hands onto the arms of his chair and propelled himself to his feet. _You fool. You absolute lummox._ But he refused to lie. “Just a line from one of their better poems. Which isn’t saying much, if you knew their poetry.” He gestured at the book between them, open on Corvo’s desk. “Let’s get back to work. Six bunkhouses, was it?”

That night, as with all the other nights, the Outsider called a halt to everything at around midnight. “I won’t hear it,” he said to Corvo’s protests. “Your mornings tend to be far earlier than mine, and I’m exhausted. We’re stopping for now.”

He _was_ exhausted. He still is; apparently, proper stakeouts take _work_. And his days have been full to the brim. He’s still helping with Tev’s tavern, which is finally ready for the contractors to return and start rebuilding. Soon as it’s dark, he's been climbing back up to the rooftops, hoping to intercept Hatter deals that might lead to more Overseer raids. (There haven’t been many—not even before the attack on the tavern. It seems he may have actually scared the Overseers away. That, or they’re biding their time before they pull something big. He suspects it’s the latter, and tries not to let his concern turn to paranoia.)

But the rest of his nights belong to Corvo. They’ve been together every night this week, an unbroken string of evenings since he and Corvo squared off in the fighting ring.

The exhaustion is a small price to pay. He’s never felt so alive. Or had so much fun. 

The nights studying at the Tower, Corvo took to pulling out a deck of playing cards when they got stuck plotting entry and exit routes. It surprised the Outsider that a few games could clear his mind enough to help them solve their deadlocks.

And he’ll admit it—he enjoys clobbering Corvo in round after round. Not that Corvo doesn’t win. The Outsider just wins _more_. And there’s always a spark of respect in Corvo’s eyes when he does. Corvo’s fascinated at the way the Outsider shuffles the cards, too. It’s the method the tavern regulars taught him: neatly, the corners barely lifted, every card alternating in a quick, satisfying _snap_.

“Blame Tev and the others,” the Outsider told him. “For the wins, and the shuffling. _They_ certainly don’t go easy on novices.” Which got the laugh from Corvo he’d hoped for.

He’s learning that he and Corvo make a good team. Corvo’s got a mind for details; the Outsider has a knack for seeing the bigger picture whenever the minutiae stymies them. The Outsider keeps expecting Corvo to dismiss his ideas, since Corvo’s the one who’s used to this kind of thing, but Corvo never does.

Tonight, it's their second night staking out the Office of the High Overseer in person. There's still plenty of nights ahead. The Outsider's trying not to be too thrilled at the prospect. They're doing a _job_. A serious, dangerous one, at that.

“What’s a high overseer need a personal safe for while he’s at _work_ , anyway,” Corvo mutters, closing his notebook.

“A good question. If it’s for personal effects, he should have one at home.”

“And if it’s Abbey business, he’d use the evidence vault.” Corvo sighs. “I’m going to guess the safe doesn’t have anything we can use. Gideon wouldn’t keep anything clandestine somewhere so obvious. He’s smarter than that.”

“Smart, maybe,” says the Outsider, still peering over the ledge. “But people like him are rarely clever. He’ll have the combination somewhere in his office, I can almost guarantee it.”

“If he does, we can take a look anyway. Just in case.”

The Outsider gives the windows one more skim. Gideon’s in there, coming out from behind his desk to speak to another Overseer. Emily was right—the man _does_ have a punchable face. A born aristocrat, judging by the way he speaks and immediately laughs at whatever he’s just said. Perhaps the Overseer is laughing, too, but the mask makes it hard to tell.

“I do think he's hiding _something_ in that office,” says the Outsider. “Look at the locks on his desk.”

“And I’d bet that’s a tripwire trigger, off to the right,” adds Corvo. “Behind the door, there.”

Thunder rumbles distantly overhead.

“Shit.” Corvo’s mask tilts skyward. “Wasn’t supposed to rain until tomorrow.”

“It still might not.”

Minutes later, a few cold raindrops start pattering them. Then more, picking up speed. “Well,” grumbles the Outsider, “so much for optimism.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it, when it comes to the weather.” There’s a smirk in Corvo’s voice. “Come on. We need to move before it gets too wet to use the roofs.”

They’ve nearly made it to the river when the downpour begins.

It’s pelting down too hard to even see, let alone keep their footing. Fortunately, their latest rooftop has a broad tin awning over the roof access door. Corvo ducks under it, and the Outsider follows. The rain pounds on the awning, an ear-splitting ruckus.

They’ve been moving fast; they’re both panting. “Damn,” says the Outsider, hands braced on his knees as he gets his air back. “That was brisk.”

Corvo laughs. “Brisk is one word for it, yeah.” He pushes his mask up and off, which spikes and ruffles his wet hair. The Outsider watches raindrops cling to the pointed ends of it, the water gold in the lights from the river beyond him.

The Outsider isn’t much less waterlogged. He pulls off his kerchief and uses it to dry his face. His own hair is hanging; he flicks it out of his eyes. “Think it’ll last?”

“Can’t be that long. Let’s give it a few minutes. If it doesn’t clear, we can make our way down and go back at ground level.”

“Sure.” The Outsider watches it come down. Although—he's got a moment. He doesn't have to just watch. He moves to the edge of the awning and stretches his hand into the downpour, letting the rain drum into his open palm.

It’s still a joy, even after so many months. Before, even when he appeared outside the Void, he was never able to feel the sun on his face, or get snowmelt in his hair, or even breathe in the smell of rain. Another one of a hundred small reasons he’s glad to be human again.

He realizes he’s smiling guilelessly into the deluge. Embarrassed, he closes his hand and turns back to Corvo.

Who’s looking away, pulling his notebook from his inner coat pocket.

The Outsider’s face heats despite the chill of rainwater. _I must look like an imbecile._

Corvo’s notes are dry, at least, and so are the Outsider’s, so the two of them cross-check the details until the storm lets up enough to make it back to ground level.

They arrive on the other side of the Wrenhaven just a few blocks from Dunwall Tower. At the point where they’ll have to split—the Outsider to the left, back to his own district, and Corvo to the right, up to the Tower—they pause under a shop’s striped canopy. They’re just shy of shivering, water dripping from their noses, mask and kerchief long abandoned. The rain has picked back up, and the wind with it.

"Well," says the Outsider, "I'll see you tomorr—"

“Come back to the Tower with me,” suggests Corvo.

The Outsider wants nothing more. “It’s nearly midnight. I should get home.”

“That’s a half hour’s walk from here.” Corvo brushes water out of his eyes, looking the Outsider over. “You’re going to freeze if you don’t get into something warm and dry soon. Might as well come in and stay over. There’s a safer climbing route we can take to get to my window—I’ll show you.”

If they’re going straight up to his window, Corvo’s got no plan to put him in a guest suite, or to alert the staff.

Which means the Outsider will be spending the night in Corvo’s room. A second time.

 _I can’t,_ he thinks desperately. _I don’t need him—or anyone—to save me yet again._ But he _is_ starting to get cold, and a long walk back alone, in the rain...“All right,” he says at last. “I’d be glad to. Just one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I get the sofa this time.”

Corvo grins. “Done.”

In his quarters, Corvo lights the lamps and gets the hearth going. He hands the Outsider a towel and a whiskey. He loans the Outsider a set of pajamas, then sets him up on the sofa with a stack of blankets and a pillow. When they're both toasty and dry, they chat until the Outsider can barely keep his eyes open.

As he drifts off, he thinks, _I am in so far over my head_.

He leaves before Corvo wakes, just as the cool gray of dawn lightens the room, and the fire in the hearth is no more than embers. He wants to stay—doesn't want to be rude—but he's not sure he could survive seeing Corvo with mussed sleep-hair again. Besides, the contractors are going to arrive at the tavern early this morning. Someone's got to meet them. Someone who has a level head, who is _not_ preoccupied with idle fantasies about people who are supposed to be their friends. He'll see Corvo tonight. And Emily, and Billie, too. He can put them all out of his mind for now.

The Outsider takes the safe route down to the street and turns his collar up against the morning drizzle. He doesn't look back.

*

*

*

The misting rain has only just let up when the Empress’ delegation arrives at the Office of the High Overseer at nine o'clock sharp.

Ambrose Gideon is _delighted_ to see them. He’s holding court in a gaudy, finely decorated chamber Corvo mostly remembers from above, sighting down his crossbow to snipe Thaddeus Campbell with a sleep dart.

The room is much the same, all wooden paneling, dramatic fireplaces, plush carpet, and expensive artwork. Plus two sets of double doors, which puts Corvo (even more) on edge, since there’s no seat with a good view of both entrances. There aren’t enough people to fill the table that runs the length of the room, so the Empress’ group and Gideon’s delegation sit at one end.

From the head of the table—a slight, since that’s where the Empress belongs, no matter the setting—Gideon guides them through the plans he’s making in anticipation of the Abbey’s budget increase, which kicks in next month.

It’s more or less what Corvo expected. Additional Overseers brought in and recruited, new outposts built, new systems for reporting heresy, extra training to deal with vigilante citizens who would stand in their way.

It’s that last one that gives him pause. _They still don’t know it’s the Outsider chasing those Overseers off_ , he reminds himself. _And there’s still time before any of these heightened measures begin._

He’ll have to warn the Outsider about it, if the secrets they unearth don’t nullify the need in the first place.

Corvo’s going to miss the time they’re spending together once their investigation ends. He’s been enjoying the Outsider’s company. Their silences are as comfortable as their conversations, and they’re able to fill the gaps in each other’s expertise. The Outsider feels perfectly at ease suggesting riskier strategies, and always lays them out in a way that makes Corvo think they could actually pull it off.

Whether they’re studying or scouting, the Outsider’s making sure they wrap everything up just after midnight. Apparently he’s determined that Corvo get _some_ sleep. Corvo’s been protesting, but he has been getting more sleep since they started all this. Someone’s looking out for him, for a change. It's...it's kind of nice, actually.

But it makes the guilt worse, because Corvo still finds himself distracted by the most ridiculous things—the Outsider’s hands dexterously, skillfully, shuffling a deck of cards. The rainwater-shine on the Outsider’s lips as they stood under that canopy down at the docks last night. And before that. All the Outsider had to do was stand there, catching raindrops in his palm, and Corvo _ached_. 

_We are friends,_ he reminds himself, a tiresome refrain by now. _Partners. Colleagues. Nothing more._

Void. He’s not here to daydream about the Outsider. He’s here to protect Emily.

And to search for anything they can use from the inside of the Office.

He’s been making coded notes in the margins of his folio. The number of steps from the gated front entrance to the main doors. Objects they could turn into weapons, if need be. Places to hide that aren’t in their diagram—closets and other cubbyholes. He’ll burn these pages once he’s transferred the information to his notebook and updated the Outsider. Eventually, he’ll burn the notebook, too.

“It’s about time they voted us into more funds,” Gideon is saying, smirking as his Overseers nod. “Our efforts are finally paying off. In the last month, we’ve seen the number of heretical incidents in Dunwall reach a new low.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” says Emily, perfectly pleasant. “Though it seems to me that the number of Overseer raids is going up.”

“That’s because it’s an inverse relationship.” Gideon steeples his hands, elbows braced on the varnished surface of the table. “The raids increase, the heresy declines. I take it you don’t approve of my methods?”

Emily smiles. Corvo will never understand how she makes it look so genuine even when he knows she’s fuming. “I’m only a mouthpiece for the people of Dunwall,” she says. “Quite a few have sought audiences to tell me about the heretical charges brought against family and friends, even though they’re model students of the strictures.”

“Sounds alarming.” Gideon’s eyes glitter. “I can see why you’d be concerned. But remember, Empress: even the most profane servants of the Void can quote the strictures. And it’s not like we’re just picking random people off the street.” He chuckles. “They’re the ones hoarding trinkets and runes straight from the Void itself. We find the evidence, we bring them in. It’s that simple.”

 _You miserable bastard,_ Corvo thinks, hand clenching. _Picking random people off the street is exactly what you’re doing._ He counts words in his notes to keep from cracking the barrel of his fountain pen.

“I suppose you’d know best,” says Emily, “especially on such a large scale. Tell me—where are you keeping all the people you arrest?”

“Nearby.” Gideon grins. Why he always looks like he’s telling a joke, Corvo will never know. “Beneath you, actually.”

Emily’s brows lift—feigning interest, not surprise. “I wasn’t aware the Abbey had the capacity for so many prisoners.”

“We didn’t, when I got here.” Gideon sits back, smug. “Building additional holding cells is one of the first things I put my men to work on. The lower level here had been shut up since the rat plague. Now it’s got the capacity for two hundred apostates.”

_Two hundred!_

“That’s more than I would have guessed, considering the size of the building.” Emily manages to continue looking impressed. “I hope they’re comfortable.”

“It doesn’t matter if they’re comfortable,” scoffs Gideon. “What matters is that the people of Dunwall are safe from the temptations of the Void. Truth be told, if it was up to me, we’d have already sent every last heretic to burn at the stake.”

Emily smiles, but Corvo can see the tension tightening in her gloves. “Well, unfortunately, even the heretics are my people. I have a responsibility to them, too. At least until their hearings prove them guilty.”

“Hearings?” Gideon’s eyes narrow, an exaggerated gesture to indicate he doesn’t know whether she’s teasing or not. He glances at his other Overseers, ever the fucking dramatist. Corvo loathes him. “We catch them with heretical material in their own homes and hands. There’s no need for a jury to confirm their guilt.”

Emily takes his bewilderment and throws it right back at him. “Even heretics need a hearing. I’m not sure Parliament had 'indefinite prisoner upkeep' in mind when they voted to increase your budget.”

Pride wells up in Corvo’s heart. Emily never could’ve navigated this conversation a year ago. _If Jess could see her now..._

“Fair enough,” says Gideon, briefly lifting both his hands. He’s smirking again. “Tell you what, Empress. I’ll get my men working on a solution, and I’ll report back.”

Emily’s smile is radiant once more. “Thank you, High Overseer.”

In the carriage back to the Tower—Emily and Corvo in this coach, the royal advisors in another—Emily’s quiet. Quieter than usual, after their meetings with Gideon.

Corvo can’t blame her. _Two hundred prisoners._ They didn’t even get to ask if the cells were full. At least he knows where they're keeping Ava Comber's mother. He'll have to tell the Outsider. Corvo finally ventures, “It seems like badmouthing Gideon behind closed doors _did_ help you keep your cool face-to-face.”

Emily grabs one of the tasseled little seat cushions and hurls it into the opposite corner of the coach. “He’s a fucking _monster_ ,” she snaps. “ _Two hundred—_ Corvo, tell me you and the Outsider have something, because I’m going to—” She twitches her fingertips; the cushion rockets back into her hand, and she winds up for another throw. “— _throttle him_ if I have to see him—”

Corvo snatches the flung cushion out of the air. “We’re working on it.”

Emily rubs at her temples, clearly trying to simmer down. “Whatever Gideon’s 'solution' is, I'm not going to care for it, I'll tell you that. I may need to start finding support in Parliament sooner than I thought.”

Corvo’s already been wondering if there’s a way he and the Outsider could help with that. “We’ll work on it, too.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Emily smiles, weary. “I want to think about something else. Remind me when Billie and the Outsider are arriving tonight?”

*

*

*

The Outsider is expected at the Tower for Emily’s little dinner gathering at seven o’clock sharp. But at five-thirty, he's still down at the tavern. He's running behind. It's partially because he’s only just sent Ava the Hatter away; she caught him hauling garbage into the alley, desperate for an update. He gave her one, vaguely as possible: “I’m working on it, and I’m getting close.” He still isn’t entirely sure he can trust her, but fortunately, she didn’t press him for details—a good sign.

When he comes back inside, Tev’s leaning in the jamb between kitchen and bar. “Oi. Weren’t you supposed to be gone half an hour ago?”

“I’m going.” The Outsider still needs to wash up and dress up, and start the long walk to the Tower—no rooftops, or he’ll muss his clothes. He grabs his coat. “I’m sorry to leave you so early.”

“Hey, no trouble. Contractors are packing up, too.” Tev pushes his hands into his pockets. “So where are you headed? Another date with the Royal Protector?”

The Outsider freezes, one arm paused halfway through his coat sleeve.

Tev grins. “Did you think I wouldn’t know? He can give a false name, but he’s got one of the most famous faces in Dunwall. Can’t believe nobody said a word at the ring.”

The Outsider glances at the kitchen vents; they’re closed. The two contractors are still out front, but they’re both bashing around. No one could overhear him.

Slowly, he pulls his coat on the rest of the way. “He should’ve been unrecognizable.” The Outsider _knows_ he carved that sigil exactly right. “There’s a—” He can’t tell Tev that someone as high-profile as Corvo has a bonecharm collection. “—I made him take one of my bonecharms that night. Only people who’ve known him for _years_ should be able to…”

“Oh,” says Tev, brows furrowing, “wait, have we never talked about this? My dad worked at the Tower, years back. In the kitchens—one of the sommeliers. We _lived_ there, when I was little. Rat plague drove us out.”

The Outsider stares. There are so many people he wishes he’d bothered to notice, back when he could see everything. “So you _have_ known him for years.”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, I was just a kid. A wee one, at that. But his Royal Protector-ness was always friendly with the staff. I mean, he _was_ staff, wasn’t he, even if he was boinking the empress, rest her. He used to bring us sweets from all the places they’d go on progress. And he always had a minute to fence with me. Broom handles, obviously.” Tev smiles. “Don’t worry, Nameless. Your business is your business. I’m no snitch.”

 _Hardly anyone is, until they’re forced._ The Outsider says, “It—it isn’t a date. I’m meeting a group. And anyway, he—we’re just working together.”

“Have fun, then.” Tev’s brows lift and lower. “ _Working together_.”

Before the Outsider can protest, Tev’s heading back to the front, hollering playfully at the contractors over the din they’re making.

The Outsider hopes to the Void that this won’t come back to haunt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: the old pandyssian civilizations spoke garbled-as-hell latin but only because your girl spoops couldn’t find a reliable enochian translator -_-
> 
> next time on AWIBA: reuNIted and it FEELS so GOOOOD; in vino veritas (translated from old pandyssian: ‘somebody can’t hold their fuckin booze)’; and finally, [danny ocean voice yet again] livingston, we’re set


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: okay we’re just gonna do this quick little dinner scene to set up/foreshadow a few things for later, then finish out the last stuff before the heist, EASY, BOOM, DONE
> 
> also me: what if it was 4000 words longer and had infinity more yearning, also alcohol
> 
> anyway enjoy all 7k of this, christ
> 
> and hey. folks. all of you. oh my god. i can barely handle these comments n kudos n everything else. i love you. YES, YOU. ESPECIALLY YOU. thank you for making this such a joy <3

Before the Outsider can give his name (or lack thereof) to the doorman, Corvo’s there to collect him.

And the Outsider has to tamp down on a burst of frustration.

In daylight hours, surrounded with work and problems to solve, with Tev and the contractors and everyone else, it is so easy to convince himself that he’s obliterated his infatuation.

 _Of course Corvo would never see me that way,_ he thinks, sanding down a scorched corner of the bar. _Of course I’d never risk ending the deepest friendship I’ll ever have,_ he thinks, signing off on a delivery.

Then Corvo has the Void-cursed audacity to meet him looking so deliciously dapper, and that’s it. Every logical thought scatters to the far corners of the Outsider’s mind.

It is _exasperating_. 

Corvo’s wearing an indigo shirt and trousers with a deeply plum waistcoat edged in bronze stitching. The waistcoat seems designed to emphasize the broadness of his shoulders. His hair is actually tamed, part of it hanging over his forehead, so the Outsider can imagine his own hands in it, mussing it, gripping—

“Glad you made it,” says Corvo, delighted. “The other two got a head start.”

“On dinner?”

“On drinking.” Corvo nods him along, and they fall into step. “Billie’s staying here at the Tower, and Emily was ready to end the day early, so.”

The Outsider smirks. “Well, Billie’s a sailor, Emily’s young. The first drink doesn’t count.”

Corvo laughs. He leads the Outsider up through the Tower, into a cozy, glass-enclosed terrace that looks out on the river and part of the city. They’re high enough to see the western horizon still illuminated with pale shades of rose and violet, the last of sunset.

There’s more—the Outsider sees greenery, a table set for four, and Emily, rising from her seat—but then Billie’s in front of him, wide-eyed and relieved. “Outsider!” And then she’s drawing him into a bruising embrace.

Surprised, he goes stock-still, his arms wide and uncertain. “—burns down and you can’t even send a note,” Billie’s saying, “I had to find out from _Daud_ —”

All at once he realizes he should’ve asked her to come back sooner. He should’ve written, exactly as she offered. Recent days have filled his heart in ways he never expected, but with Billie here, hanging onto him like she really does give a damn, all he can think of is those first lonely months.

His throat’s tightening, his eyes prickling. He wraps his arms around her, nearly lifting her off the ground, all but burying his face in her neck. He’d forgotten how much taller than her he is. “I’m all right,” he promises. _Or I am now._

When Billie pulls back, she’s smiling more broadly than the Outsider’s ever seen. Her sharply-cut burgundy vest hangs to her knees, lovely over a cream-colored shirt. She squeezes his arms. “Look at you,” she says, doing just that, up and down (her eyes catch for a moment on the scar at his temple). “Nice to see you’ve put some muscle on those bones.”

His face heats. “I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, I heard all about it.” Billie glances at Emily and Corvo. “Got chummy with a whole district, financed a tavern, picked up half a dozen odd jobs—”

“You should see him play cards,” Corvo says, brushing past them.

“You’re a cardplayer?” Emily’s arrived, taking the Outsider’s hands like she did last time, her eyes wide with delight.

He’s never been rushed with more affection. “I—I dabble.”

Over Emily’s shoulder, Corvo pins him with a raised brow.

“I dabble a _lot_ ,” he says, his smile growing. “I’m decent.”

“Then we’re definitely playing later.” Emily draws him onto the room. She’s dressed simply but finely—pale silver silk on top, cuffs and collar embroidered. Charcoal-gray trousers. “What are you drinking?”

She leads him to a stocked bar cart, almost hidden in the gratuitous plant life that lines the terrace. Tev could probably mix something sublime with all the additives the Outsider sees laid out (citrus and sprigs of herbs, tinctures neatly labeled), but he’s craving something uncomplicated. He chooses an aged whiskey. Corvo, he notes with a fissure of pleasure, does the same.

The rest of the room is charming. Beyond the table for four (groaning under the weight of cheeses and fruits and ribbons of cured meat), there’s a glass-and-wrought-iron door that leads out to a balcony. Between the deeply blue evening sky above, the greenery of the plants, and the soft gold light from all the brass lamps and lanterns, the place is beautifully, horrifyingly romantic.

Emily sits the Outsider down across from her, which puts Corvo at his right, Billie to his left. He’s barely settled into his seat when Billie’s leaning on the arm of her chair toward him. “So a gang _and_ the Overseers make you a target, and you didn’t even try to get a hold of me?”

He lowers his whiskey—richly spiced and a little sweet. It warms his belly the second it hits. “I wish I had.” It feels woefully inadequate. “I should have. Next time, I will.”

“Let’s start by avoiding a ‘next time.’” Billie sips her brandy. _No Mark,_ the Outsider notes. “I'd rather not try to get that out of Daud again. I’ve asked him to watch out for you, so.”

“Apparently ‘watching’ is all he does, if you believe the graffiti,” says the Outsider, and glances at Corvo to find him smirking—recognizing his paraphrasing from the other night. “Surprised he didn’t Mark you.”

“He offered. But I’m tired of hiding things. He gave me a clean slate once we left the Ritual Hold—no wanted posters, no bounties, no bans. I’m using it.”

“Lucky,” mutters Emily. “What I wouldn’t give for some anonymity.”

“Come sailing with me,” Billie suggests. “Far enough north or south, no one will know you from—well.” She grins at him. “The Outsider. Sorry. Invoking you is a hard habit to break.”

“Not that hard.” Corvo leans back in his seat, his arm stretched to keep a hand on his whiskey tumbler. “Just give yourself a few dozen more visits and another fifteen years. You’ll manage it.”

The Outsider barely holds back an undignified snort. “I’ve been more or less immune to it for longer than—” He catches Emily’s raised brows, waiting for him to find the appropriate temporal comparison, and he thinks, _Void-voice_. “—well. Trust me, I’m not taking it personally.”

That’s when the staff arrives with dinner, whisking away the charcuterie and replacing it with large dishes so the four of them can serve themselves.

The Outsider’s not sure what he expected—nobles can say _informal_ all they want; it’s hardly ever true—but it wasn’t anything near so relaxed. He’s glad for it. And glad for the way Emily and Corvo chat warmly with the staff the whole time they’re in the vicinity.

As they tuck in, there’s so much to catch up on from Billie. Her guard seems to be down, and she’s so much quicker to smile than the Outsider remembers. Corvo’s interested in sailing, so he and Billie go on a tangent about her new ship and the crew of toughs she brought on for the season. She mentions one of them was a prizefighter, and then Emily has questions for the Outsider about the fighting ring, and it turns out Billie used to frequent the same place. Suddenly the Outsider is telling Billie that yes, Julian’s still the referee, and yes, the Hatters still run the place, but not _those_ Hatters, not the ones who attacked him. Nearing the end of his first whiskey, the Outsider lets it slip that he and Corvo actually fought each other in the ring—a detail Corvo apparently excluded when updating Emily. And then Emily and Billie _need_ details.

“He let me win,” says the Outsider, winding down the tale. “He should’ve dropped me the second the bell rang, but he gave the crowd a show.”

“It was for a good cause.” Corvo’s delighted. “And you held your own. I was impressed.” He looks at Billie and Emily. “All his friends—you should’ve seen them cheer for him. They’re devoted to him.”

“What happens when that district is as…as built-up as you can make it?” Emily asks the Outsider. “Will you move onto another, do the same thing?”

That was the plan, but lately, it’s seemed less and less feasible. “I’m not sure yet. I’m…honestly growing attached to it.”

“I’d rather the Overseers not corner you about it, though,” Emily grouses.

“Yeah.” Billie leans in. “Have they tried anything else? What’s the plan, there?”

“They’ve left me alone. As for a plan…” The Outsider glances at Corvo, uncertain how much he should say in front of Emily.

“We’re working on it.” Corvo’s dismissive, but still amused.

Emily stares at Corvo. “Are you up to something I don’t want to know about?”

Corvo shrugs. “You don’t want to know.”

While the staff clears away the remnants of dinner, Emily asks one of them to bring a deck of playing cards. Then she goes to refill her drink. Billie joins her at the bar cart to look at the other options. When Emily offers, the Outsider agrees to a second whiskey.

“How about you, Lord Protector,” Billie calls over to him. “Another round?”

“Hate to disappoint you.” Corvo looks almost bashful. “But it’s only ever one round for me. I’m always on duty.”

“You are, aren’t you.” The Outsider’s heart twists at that. “When’s the last time you had a day off?”

“Never,” says Emily, sending a mock-glare Corvo’s way as she returns. She hands the Outsider his whiskey; he thanks her. “Maybe you two can help me convince him to take a holiday. I haven’t been able to manage it.”

Corvo rolls his eyes; clearly, it’s a conversation they’ve had before. “I don’t mind being on the job—”

“Everybody needs time off,” Billie says, joining them again, brandy refreshed. “And if you’ve spent the last—however many years—drinking one whiskey at a time, I want to see what happens when you add a few more.”

“Oh, Void.” Corvo runs a hand down his face, but he’s grinning. “I can’t imagine.”

“What if there was more than one Royal Protector?” asks the Outsider. “Could you take time off then?”

All three of them turn to look at him.

He gulps. “I…take it that’s been proposed before?”

“No,” says Emily, sounding truly surprised. She turns to Billie. “See, this is why I told him there’s an Advisor position open if he wants it.”

“Are you thinking daily shifts?” Corvo asks him.

“I’m thinking however you’d like.” Warm-faced— _perhaps this is just how my face_ is _now, and I’d better get used to it—_ the Outsider drinks. “Maybe you have someone who only fills in while you actually go on holiday. Maybe it’s eight-hour shifts, maybe it’s—I don’t know.”

Corvo’s wearing a soft, bewildered look that the Outsider can’t begin to interpret. “Might think on that.”

“We can negotiate later,” says Emily. One of the staff has dropped off a deck of cards, and she’s plucking it open. “Anybody up for a game?”

It only takes a few rounds for Emily and Billie to start gaping at the Outsider.

“I warned you.” Corvo’s eyes are bright; by now, he’s used to taking his losses in stride.

“Did you learn all this just from watching in the Void?” Emily asks.

“The rules, yes.” The Outsider’s shuffling this time, careful and fluid, and he can feel Corvo watching his hands. It’s tricky under the pressure (and the dent he’s making in his second whiskey). “But the shuffling, and this…” He picks up the deck and, with one hand, divides it neatly in half, then flips the lower half over the top so it’s properly cut. It’s a little slower than he’d like, but it’s smooth. “…it took a crew of players back in my district. You should see them do it—they’re like lightning.”

“They’ve probably been practicing for years,” says Billie. “You’ve been at this, what—a few months?”

“And it’s been a moment since I’ve had time to practice. I’m not sure I could pull off any of the other tricks.”

“There’s _more?_ ” Emily says, and then he’s showing her how to keep the highest-ranking card on top of the deck no matter how it’s shuffled. Then how to track a single card through multiple shuffles.

As they work, Billie brings out a tin of Culleros. She and Emily take one. Corvo declines politely. The Outsider declines, too; he’s nowhere near as talented at mixing indulgences as Tev and the others.

He barely notices when Billie goes to get some air on the balcony, and Corvo joins her. Emily’s determined to get this particular movement right, and he’s glad to help her.

He feels loose and light and lovely. With his friends at the tavern, there’s always so much he can’t say, so much of himself he has to hide. Here, with these three—they know the important bits. And he knows them, too. Much more than they’d probably like, but they’re still here. They still _want_ him here.

It’s new. It’s different. Yet another path he never imagined he’d get to follow. For the first time in a long time, he thinks he might not dread where this one leads.

*

*

*

Billie’s gone to get some air on the balcony—a little dizzy from the booze and the stogie both, she said—so Corvo excuses himself and goes to join her.

He’s glad to breathe in the cool night air. He’s felt a little overwarm ever since he fetched the Outsider from the public entrance. The Outsider's fit, forest-green jacket and gray shirt did—and does—nothing except draw attention to his clear, light eyes.

Billie’s leaning on the wide stone railing, lit from behind with the brass lanterns that line the terrace. She turns to Corvo as he approaches, and she lifts her cigar in greeting.

“Feeling better?” Corvo asks.

“The cold helps.” She pulls the cigar tin out of her vest. “You sure you don’t want one?”

It’s been years. Corvo puts his back against the railing beside her, folding his arms. “Definitely tempting.”

Her smile widens. “C’mon, Lord Protector. Live a little. No vacation in decades of service—you deserve it.” She waggles the tin.

There’s only so much a man can resist. “You know what? I’d love one.”

She has a sharp knife and a silver lighter, and shares both.

His first good mouthful is…fuck. It’s delicious. He closes his eyes, lets himself savor it.

“The good shit, right,” says Billie.

“Better than I remember.” Corvo glances over at her. He likes her. She says what she means, and she’s got the tired eyes of someone who’s seen too much, too soon. He gets it. “Billie. Everything you did, for Emily—”

“Don’t.” She says it without malice. “I did it for Anton. That I ended up liking the kid was incidental. You raised a good one. Stubborn as all Void, but she hears people when they speak to her. Can’t say that about most nobles.”

There’s a compliment in there somewhere. Corvo watches his daughter and his friend back on the terrace, Emily’s brows furrowed in concentration as the Outsider walks her through a technique. Corvo says, “Then maybe I should thank you for bringing the Outsider to Dunwall.”

“ _That_ thanks, I’ll take.” She takes another mouthful of smoke, and releases it slowly. “You two were close, even before he got out of the Void.” It’s not a question.

Corvo pictures black eyes and that smirking mouth. Absolute surety and smugness, fascination fixed on him from the corner of his sofa. “Guess you could say that.”

“Hmh.” She's still smiling. “I think Daud was always pissed the Outsider liked you better.”

Corvo says it automatically: “He doesn’t play favorites.”

Billie leans closer, nailing him with an _are-you-fucking-serious_ face.

This conversation is veering into territory Corvo does _not_ want to cover.

She seems to get it. She turns back to the view over the railing.

He takes another draw from his cigar, relieved.

“So,” says Billie, “how are we gonna keep the Abbey from bringing him in?”

“We’ve got a plan.”

“You wanna tell me about it?”

Corvo gives the area a casual skim. Not that it matters; like Emily’s office and his own room, he’s hidden bonecharms around the terrace that dissuade overhearing. Briefly, he tells Billie of their plan to steal evidence to implicate Gideon. And the fact that Emily doesn’t—can’t—know. Part of him wonders if this is information he should be sharing; he's only just met Billie _today_ , after all. But Emily and the Outsider trust her. And since he trusts them...

Billie mulls everything over. “I want to help. But I wouldn’t want to put a third person in that building.”

“Neither would I.”

“Could you use a getaway driver? The Office is right on the river. My ship’s got a skiff I could park nearby.”

They can use all the help they can get. “We’ll loop you in this week.”

“You know, it’s dangerous—the Outsider going in there. Even if they don’t know who he used to be.”

“It’s his idea.” Corvo takes another draw. Void, it’s a good cigar. “He’s more than capable. And I’ll be there as backup.”

“Good,” Billie says. “The few weeks I got to know him, he wanted to do everything on his own. I mean, he still does—look at all he’s done here by himself. He’s worse than Emily, that stubborn streak. But he needs people far more than he’s willing to let on.” She turns to face Corvo. “Don’t let him do this—this humanity thing—all by himself, will you.”

That’s the idea. “I’ll be there.”

“He’s lucky to have you.” She straightens up. “I’m heading back. I want in if they get started dealing for the next round.”

And he’s alone.

*

*

*

Emily and Billie want to play a game the Outsider doesn’t enjoy quite as much, so instead of getting dealt in, he heads to the balcony to get some air. It’ll do him good, considering Emily topped off both their glasses.

Corvo’s leaning his lower back on the wide stone balustrade, one arm folded, the other propped atop it. A cigar is balanced elegantly across his knuckles. The light from the terrace lanterns illuminates his profile, his back lost in blue darkness.

Corvo smiles when he notices the Outsider approaching. “Couldn’t resist,” Corvo says, gesturing to and with the cigar. “One every fifteen years or so isn’t too bad, right.”

“Of course not.” The Outsider puts his elbows on the rail to Corvo's left, letting his glass settle with a _click_ against the rough stone. The view out here is breathtaking. Below them, the river gleams in the moonlight. The deeply blue cityscape is studded with gold light from a hundred different windows. It’s a clear night; all the stars are out. “You and Billie seem to get on.”

Corvo turns so he can face the same direction. Elbows on the rail and all. “I like her. I see why you and Emily do, too. And she wants to help with the investigation.” He tells the Outsider of her offer to wait for them on the river.

By the Void, the Outsider’s heart is full. He’ll never be able to repay so much kindness. “Did you learn anything from your visit with Gideon this morning?”

Corvo catches him up on that, too.

The numbers—it’s beyond belief. The Outsider scrubs a hand into his hair. “Two hundred prisoners.” All he can add is a bewildered, “Fuck.”

“Putting it lightly.”

He’s trying to think. The whiskey’s not helping. “I wonder if there’s a way to start marshaling support in Parliament ahead of time. So if we do find evidence, they’ll already be set to act.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Corvo draws in a mouthful of smoke.

The Outsider does not—absolutely does not—notice the shadows of tendons rising in the back of Corvo’s hand, the way his cheeks briefly hollow.

“Support does exist,” Corvo continues, smoke spilling free. “Just a question of drawing them out again after Minister Forsythe’s arrest. If we can even find out who they are.”

“Ugh. Right.” The Outsider drinks. “I bet he knows them all. Even the ones who weren’t bold enough to speak on the floor of Parliament that day.” Finally, an idea dawns on him. “Maybe we could ask _Forsythe_ about them. Stop in at Coldridge, see if—”

“No.”

Corvo says it quietly, but it’s so swift and blunt that the Outsider freezes.

Guilt washes through him, dark and stifling, horror rising in its wake. “Oh. Oh, Void, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking—”

“No, it’s _—I'm_ sorry, I—” Corvo’s brows are furrowed as he studies the stone beneath his arms. “It’s actually a good idea. If we go right to the source, we’d save ourselves a lot of trouble.”

The Outsider feels like a jackass. “If it comes to that, I’ll go alone.”

Corvo huffs. “You don’t have to—”

The Outsider’s hand is on Corvo’s forearm before he fully registers he’s done it. Corvo’s shirt is _soft_ , nothing like the starched fabric he grabbed a fistful of the other night at the ring. Solid tension burns beneath his grip. “Corvo.” He makes sure he’s meeting Corvo’s eyes. They’re big and brown and Corvo has gone very, very still. The Outsider repeats, “I’ll go alone.”

Corvo’s throat bobs. He nods. “All right.”

The Outsider takes his hand back, and turns to the view of the river. Void. Damn and shite and bullocks and tripe. Of course he wouldn’t drag Corvo to Coldridge. The man already lives with all six months of that trauma close to the surface; he’s got a plain view of the prison from a quarter of the windows in Dunwall Tower. “How do you stand it?” the Outsider asks. “Living so close to that place?”

“I don’t need to be on that side of the Tower often.” Corvo’s voice is light. Overcompensating. “And—you know, I can try to get a record of who stood with Forsythe in Parliament that day. The records of the proceedings are public; it might list them. Maybe you won’t need to go, either.”

The Outsider nods. He wants to get far away from this topic as possible. “Void. Let’s talk about it when I’m sober.”

That gets Corvo smiling. “Sounds good.” He draws another mouthful of smoke, then glances at the Outsider. He swivels the cigar so he’s holding it out between his fore- and middle fingers. “Want a pull?”

Void, yes, the Outsider wants a pull, but… _It’s not like I’ll smoke the whole damn thing,_ he thinks. _I can handle a puff or two_. He takes the cigar. Their knuckles brush. The ember-end is nowhere near his fingers, but it feels like sparks jump up and down his arm just the same.

The taste is smoother, more flavorful, than the stuff the tavern regulars like. He tries not to think about the fact that sharing a cigar is as close as he’ll ever come to getting Corvo’s mouth on his own.

Their knuckles brush again when the Outsider gives it back, and he wraps both hands around his cold tumbler, willing his heating face to cool.

“So where would you go?” he asks, and when Corvo looks at him, puzzled, he remembers he needs to add context to his non-sequiturs. “I mean, on a holiday. If you had time off.”

Corvo’s smile only grows. “I’ve never even thought about it. I’ve been a lot of places, but…never off-duty.”

“Would you go back to Karnaca? From what I’ve read, the Duke’s double is turning things around.”

“Maybe.” Corvo looks out over the Wrenhaven. “It’s all kinds of cliched, but…I think I’d like somewhere with more sun. A quiet beach.”

“You like being near the water,” the Outsider says fondly.

“I’m Karnacan. It’s in my blood.”

Makes sense. “I enjoy it, too.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

He glances back at Corvo. “No?”

“Every time you pulled me into the Void, you had an entourage of whales. And buoys, and—the nautical motifs were hard to miss.” Corvo’s gaze comes back, curious. “Why whales?”

“The Leviathans were there long before I was.”

“ _Leviathans_ ,” Corvo amends. “Not the same as whales?”

Something about the way Corvo says _Leviathans_ makes the Outsider smile. Maybe it’s how Corvo subtly bites into his lower lip on the _V_ —the same way the Outsider does every time he gets to the _V_ in Corvo’s name.

“Similar to whales, I suppose. I saw them as whale…spirits? Or maybe they were the first whales. Or not whales at all. All I know is that they were old. They weren’t very forthcoming about themselves. But they did show me how to look in on what I left. How to navigate the Void.”

“You could communicate?”

“In a way.” He doesn’t know how to explain it.

Corvo’s smirk is gently teasing. “So ‘Leviathan’ is one of the other languages you picked up. Don’t suppose that one’s worth a demonstration.”

The Outsider snorts. “No, it’s very idiosyncratic. High Leviathan, for formal occasions. Vernacular Leviathan, for the common whale.” He swirls the whiskey in his glass, elated when Corvo laughs, too. He looks again at the moonlight gleaming on the river. “You know, before Roseburrow, before hunting them devastated their numbers, the whales used to guide lost ships back to shore. Suppose it’s only fitting that they were there to guide me.”

“Suppose so.”

They’re quiet for a long moment.

Then Corvo says, “The, ah. The ‘guiding’ part reminded me. I have something else to ask you.”

“Should I assure you each time that you’re allowed?”

Briefly, Corvo rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “Always feels like the next thing I ask is going to negate that offer.”

“It never will.” The Outsider is certain of that. “Try me.”

Corvo looks out at the river. His lips part, and still, he hesitates. At last he says, “Jess’ Heart. Do I want to know why you—the former you—thought that was a good idea?”

The Outsider takes all his loose-limbed lightness and buries it as fast and deep as he can. He doesn’t sober completely; at this point, with so much fine whiskey in his blood, it’s impossible. But part of him always knew this question was coming. He needs to answer truthfully and carefully and seriously, and he needs to keep his head when Corvo loses his. The Outsider says, “It wasn’t my idea.”

Corvo’s gaze snaps over, wide-eyed.

“It was hers,” continues the Outsider. He looks down at his drink. “You know that when humans die, their souls—spirits—whatever you’d like to call them—pass through the Void. Some wanted to speak with me. Many asked me for favors. Most gave up, after a time. But Jessamine…when she asked, she wouldn’t be told no. No surprise to you, I’m sure.”

“No.” Corvo’s quiet. There’s none of the livid confusion the Outsider expected. Corvo’s actually…he’s not smiling, exactly, but his stare is soft as his voice. “Doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“She wanted to help you. And she wanted to stay in the Void as long as she could, on the off-chance she could be useful to you again. Or Emily, as it turned out.”

A line appears between Corvo’s brows. “So when Emily released Jess’—soul. From the Heart. After that…is she just trapped in the Void forever?”

“No. No soul is there for very long. The Void is only a waypoint.”

“On the way to what?”

“I don’t know.” And what a gift that unknowing was. Is, still. “But even the most agitated souls always felt at peace when they finally moved on.” The Outsider wills Corvo to see the truth in his eyes. “Jessamine’s soul was the same. She was at peace, Corvo.”

Corvo looks a little gutted, but—his shoulders aren’t as tense as they were a moment ago. He looks away at last, his eyes tracking the jeweled points of light in the cityscape across the river. His spare hand comes up again to rub at one temple.

The Outsider’s own heart is thudding hard. He needs to give Corvo a moment, he knows. He needs to let him process this. But he just. The idea that he’d cause Corvo pain—he manages, “Was I wrong to tell you?”

“No.” Corvo breathes out long and slow. When he looks back at the Outsider, he seems nothing but relieved. “I’m glad you did. You actually—that helped, if you can believe it.” He takes a draw from the cigar. Through the smoke, he says, “Thank you.”

Guilt is gnawing at the Outsider again. “For what. Turning things maudlin?”

“For never bullshitting me.”

“You’re welcome, then.” He’s so relieved Corvo isn’t irreparably upset. “And no—that question didn’t negate my standing offer to answer more. I enjoy your curiosity. I always have.”

Corvo ducks his head, smiling once again.

The Outsider scoffs. “ _What._ ”

Corvo shrugs, his grin widening. “I’ve just never seen you tipsy before. A couple ales at the ring the other night didn’t get you this talkative.”

“Oh, Void.” The Outsider sinks a hand into his hair again, abashed. “I was afraid I’d make a chatty drunk. But this—” he indicates his glass. “—is _far_ stronger than the ale at the ring. I think they water it down.”

“Speaking of water.” Corvo nods to the terrace. “We should go back in. Start you on some of it.”

“I am _not_ that—” The Outsider turns away from the river, and everything in his line of sight takes an extra second to snap into place. “Oh. Yes. Water. We should do that.”

They return. The Outsider is relieved that Emily, too, has moved onto something non-alcoholic—“Another early morning,” she grumbles, languid enough to look far more inebriated than him—but it feels like a shame to abandon the last few sips of his whiskey, and he says so.

Corvo plucks the tumbler out of the Outsider’s hand and drains the last of it. “That first one was hours ago,” he says to Emily’s surprised, delighted face. “Don’t give me that look.”

She trades an entirely different look with Billie. One that says the Outsider and Corvo missed something in an earlier conversation. But she deals them into her next game.

Billie trounces all of them through the next half-dozen rounds, apparently immune to alcohol and fatigue. Emily’s the first to excuse herself to head to bed, thanking Billie and the Outsider for coming (“I’m literally staying down the hall,” Billie protests; “You were kind to invite me,” says the Outsider). The remaining three linger to chat for awhile.

When he pours himself a second water, the Outsider heads back to the balcony. If he can keep hydrating, if the cold air can rouse him a little, he can sober up enough to get back home. _This was careless,_ he thinks, blinking down at the river. The stone railing is welcomingly cool through the sleeves of his jacket. _Don’t overdo it again._

He almost misses Corvo approach, and barely avoids a startled flinch when Corvo settles against the rail to his right. “We’re the last ones standing,” says Corvo.

"Do we win a prize?”

Corvo looks down at his cigar—nearly three-quarters ash by now. “This is all I have.”

The Outsider props an elbow on the rail and lifts his hand, fingers splayed in hopeful question. “Good enough for me.”

Corvo rolls the cigar neatly against the rail first, dislodging the ash, then hands it over. The cigar is far too short to avoid touching each other; their knuckles as well as the backs of their hands brush. It’s Corvo’s left hand, bare and warm. No leather wrap. No crisp, inky black.

The Outsider draws in a mouthful of smoke. He’s had such a good time tonight. He doesn’t want the evening to end. Yet he’s desperate to crash into bed and sleep off the alcohol. He sighs the smoke free—more like steam than smoke, really. He hands the rest of the cigar back to Corvo.

Who’s looking sideways at the Outsider. “You all right?”

“Oh, grand.” The Outsider presses his fingers to his temples, avoiding his scar. He hasn’t yet told Corvo that he removed his shoulder stitches himself. Wouldn’t have made it through Corvo’s hands on him again with his dignity intact. “Head’s just spinning a little. Don’t know how I’ll get home.”

“Then don’t go home. Stay here.”

The Outsider lifts his head from his hands, smirks. “What happened to scandalizing the staff?”

“It’s not a scandal if they’re the ones taking you to the guest quarters.”

“ _Ah_. Right.” Except—except…something petty and petulant chafes within him. Maybe the Outsider’s not a fully-fledged god anymore, but he can walk himself back to his district if he needs to. “Corvo, you don’t have to keep... _saving_ me.”

Corvo frowns at him. “What?”

“First the shootout at the tavern, then helping me with the investigation, then the—the rain, last night, and now this…I don’t want you to think you have to—to _Royal Protect_ me.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Is it not? I’m not just another—another inexpert charge who can’t look out for themselves, because you’re there to do it for them?”

Now Corvo looks utterly bewildered. “Outsider.”

“Or someone you feel like you owe, because you’re trying to _return the favor_ , or however you put it—”

_“Outsider.”_

That one freezes him. He makes himself meet Corvo’s eyes, and they’re just—oh, Void, now they’re earnest with intense understanding. It nearly hurts to look at.

“I’m helping you because I can,” says Corvo. “Not because I’m trying to even a score. Or because I’m obligated to protect you. I know you can look after yourself. I mean, look at you, you’re starting to tip an entire city’s economic scales. You’ve sent Overseers running. You’ve got entire millennia of knowledge to guide you. But no one can do this— _humanity thing_ —” he sounds like he’s quoting someone. “—all alone. I’m here because I want to be. Because I’m your friend. This is what friends _do_. They help each other.”

“Not when it’s dangerous.”

“We live in Dunwall. Everything is dangerous.”

The Outsider huffs half a laugh.

Corvo’s crooked little smile is back. “You’re really not used to people helping you, are you.”

By the Void, he is not. “No.”

“Not ever, I’d wager.”

The Outsider thinks of being so, so certain that someone, _anyone_ , was going to pull him from that fucking altar. Someone was going to say _wait_ , someone was going to say _there’s been a mistake_ ; it would’ve taken just _one_ of those cultists who’d convinced him of their friendship, their respect—

The Outsider catches his breath. “No.”

“I know exactly how it feels to have to depend on other people when you’re used to doing everything alone.” Corvo’s still holding his gaze with those earnest eyes. “Me lending you a hand—it’s not out of some misplaced instinct to thank you, or protect you. You are not my job, Outsider. You’re my friend. We look out for each other. You’d do any of this for me.”

In a heartbeat. Always. “I would.”

“And you wouldn’t think that helping me means I’m incapable of taking care of myself. Or that it makes me weak. In need of—” the corner of Corvo’s mouth twitches further up. “—Royal Protecting _._ ”

“No, of course not.”

Corvo spreads his hands. “See?”

“I’m starting to.” The Outsider looks back out at the river. “I know you’re right,” he says at last. “It’s like you said. It’s—difficult to accept help. And it’s even harder to accept from you, because…well.” He wills his head to clear. He needs to get these words right. “Maybe you don’t see me as someone to protect, but you still have…so _much_ on your shoulders. You always have. I wish there was a way I could—stop adding to it, and start making it easier on you.”

Corvo doesn’t reply.

The Outsider’s trying to keep his gaze fixed on a streetlight near the river. It’s bobbing in his vision exactly like the waves it illuminates. Somehow it only emphasizes the silence. “Did I say something wrong?”

“It’s just. You _are_ making it easier on me. You _have_ been.” When the Outsider chances a glance, Corvo’s looking down at the river, too, and his face is doing a sort of—it’s not a grimace, exactly, and it’s not pain, either, it’s just—vulnerable, and then…soft. He shakes his head. He looks like he’s about to laugh, but he doesn’t. He says, “You’re not adding to it.”

_That’s a relief._

But the Outsider’s head is still spinning.

“Damn it,” he mutters, “I was hoping two waters might’ve taken the edge off. Staved off a hangover.”

“Bad news,” says Corvo. His voice is light again. Distinctly unserious. “Much as you had, I think the hangover’s inevitable.”

“Splendid.”

“I’ll make sure they leave an S&J for you in the morning.”

The Outsider starts to protest, then stops himself. They did just talk about this, after all. “Thank you.”

Corvo nods, pushing off the railing. “I guess we should—”

The Outsider says, “Just a little longer.”

Corvo puts his arms back on the rail.

They watch the barges drift down the river and out to sea, slowly passing the rest of the cigar back and forth. Only when the distant Clocktower tolls midnight does the Outsider finally find the strength to say, “All right. Better hand me over to the staff before I fall asleep standing up.”

Corvo does.

***

The Outsider’s headache—and entire body ache, what was _in_ that whiskey—has only just abated when he leaves his apartment the next night.

Corvo meets him at their rendezvous point near the Office and pulls off his mask, his eyes dancing. “How was the hangover?”

The Outsider grunts, “I’m here. That’s all I’ll say about it.”

“Remember anything?”

“I didn’t drink _that_ much.” The Outsider winces. “But I wish I had. I remember devolving into—” He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, vexed. And mortified. “I’m fairly certain my own insecurities forced you to define for me what friendship actually is, and if that’s not the most pathetic—”

“Hey.” Corvo’s smile is so much kinder than the Outsider deserves. “It’s all right. We’ve all been there.”

“What, hopelessly intoxicated, or—” He blows out a frustrated breath. “—concerned that you’re a burden on everyone you know?”

Corvo weighs this, brows lifting and lowering. “Both.”

The Outsider looks at him pleadingly.

It’s clear Corvo’s trying not to laugh. “Really—it’s fine. Drunken self-doubt is one of the most human experiences there is, so. Go ahead and check that one off the list.” He’s still smiling when he pulls his mask back down. “There’s movement behind the building. Let’s take a look.”

And just like that, it’s back to business. As if the previous evening never happened.

The Outsider can’t tell if he’s disappointed or not.

They find perches on a ledge of the factory that overlooks the yard. Frowning, the Outsider takes it all in.

The Overseers seem to be starting construction on...something. Great stacks of pale lumber lay in a cleared space. There’s a surprising number of them fussing around the lumber and the yard.

“The Void are they doing?” Corvo mutters. He’s glancing up at them and back down at his notebook, making a sketch of the yard and the lumber.

The Outsider’s baffled, too. “If there’s more of them out here than in the building, that can only be good for us.”

“Yeah. Let’s see if they keep it up the next few nights.”

The Overseers _do_ keep it up the next few nights. It’s still no clearer what they’re doing; it doesn’t seem like they’re making much progress. Just sorting things.

In another few nights, they’ve learned all they can about the building, inside and out, Overseers and hourly workers alike. They begin to develop routes into the Office and out of it—a primary path, and then contingencies, and then contingencies for the contingencies.

They leap across the surrounding rooftops, learning which shingles will hold them if they’ve got to make long jumps, which chimneys are bricked solid enough to hold their weight if they throw a line around it. They slip down alleys to learn which ones let out and which ones turn into dead ends. They determine fast routes for quick escapes, and routes with nooks they can slip into and hide.

They loop Billie into the plan, since she offered, and she’s staying at the Tower for a few more weeks. She agrees to park her skiff further upriver, ready to collect them once they’ve put some distance between themselves and the Office.

Five days after the dinner party, they realize they’re ready.

The night before the mission, once they’ve debriefed, Corvo finally fetches his bonecharm collection so the Outsider can take a look. They’ve debated since the start whether they’ll bring bonecharms, but they’ve finally decided they ought to. If they get caught, they’ll have far bigger problems than a little heresy.

As the Outsider sets himself up at Corvo’s desk, Corvo pulls a flat, heavy trunk from under his bed, hidden in the thick drape of the bedskirts. The latch thrown, it opens to reveal a glittering array of knives, lock picks, and coils of thin, wiry rope capped in hooks sharp enough to catch on any stone. The Outsider sees miniature pry-bars, rounds and rounds of glittering green sleep darts, a few palm-sized pouches of fine sand, and other odds and ends.

While the Outsider carves, Corvo divvies up the items from his trunk, building kits that will fit inside their coat pockets with room to spare. When the Outsider’s finished, they add bonecharms to the kits: muffled footfalls, bursts of strength if they truly need it, and cloaking to throw off wolfhound noses.

Seeing everything laid out is…there’s a lot.

“Nervous?” Corvo asks the Outsider.

“No.” Hundreds of things could go wrong; he’s been envisioning paths upon paths, and more paths branching off from them. But they’ve planned for every possible scenario. “We’re ready. We just...” the Outsider shakes his head. His fingers are jittery when he flexes them. “I’m not nervous,” he says again. “I’m just eager to get it over with. I don't know how I'll sleep tonight.”

“I know the feeling.” Corvo studies him. “Want to play cards until you can’t keep your eyes open?”

The Outsider considers it. “Doubt I’ll get home in one piece, then.”

Corvo’s already pulling the deck out of his desk. “It’s like you never heard me say you can stay here whenever you need to.”

The Outsider is helpless to resist. If Corvo is offering more time with him, he’ll take it. But to be sure—“Sofa?”

“It’s all yours.”

Well. Good, then. “We’re still calling a halt at midnight.”

Void, the smile Corvo smiles at him. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

 _I’ll do it after,_ he thinks, letting Corvo shuffle and deal. The Outsider’s been rolling the idea around in his head for the last night or two. _After the job’s done, I’ll tell Corvo exactly how I feel. And he can decide whether or not he ever wants to see my face again when I’ve lied to him for so long._ What good is it to be truthful in every other way if they’re building their friendship on a falsehood: that the Outsider doesn’t want anything more?

They’ll do this job. One way or another—if not tonight, then a second or third trip inside—they’re going to get the information they need. They’re going to tear down Ambrose Gideon, and maybe, if they find even half of the evidence they hope for, they’ll bring his whole damn order with him.

Then the Outsider will tell Corvo everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes the tavern regulars (and therefore the outsider) learned all their card tricks from henry gondorff 
> 
> also i think this is finally, FINALLY, where the chaps are gonna start being around 2k words, ack
> 
> next time on AWIBA: mission_impossible_theme.mp3, her?, uh oh


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, hello!
> 
> warnings this week:  
> \- canon-typical elements of torture and blood (mostly offscreen, not our leads)  
> \- some discussion of how, canonically, the abbey likes to get rid of heretics (it’s salem witch style)  
> \- liberties taken with lockpicking, with apologies to any petty crime enthusiasts out there  
> \- liberties taken with the layout of the office of the overseer building, at least as it was in dh1 
> 
> so. uhhh.
> 
> enjoy?
> 
> (also dangit every week you all just, ahhh, you’re incredible and generous and lovely with the comments you leave and the kudos you kudo and everything else. i’m elated and humbled every single time. thank youuu.)
> 
> <3

Corvo deals them five cards each, and thinks, _I’m going to tell him._

He drops a stack of blankets on the sofa and thinks, _I’m going to tell him. I can’t just let this continue when I want something different out of it._

He stares up at the canopy of his bed, hands linked beneath his head, the Outsider dozing off just a few meters away in the blue, moonlit dark, and thinks, _He can’t be asleep yet. Maybe I should tell him._

He doesn’t. He _can’t._ If the Outsider goes cold, or furious, or worse, pitying (he can just imagine it: _Oh, Corvo, how predictable, I thought you were different_ )—it would ruin the investigation. Their easy partnership is their strength. They need all of it.

They’re breaking in tomorrow. Today, technically. Midnight wasn’t long ago.

_I’ll tell him afterward._

It’s become eminently clear that this—this ridiculous infatuation—isn’t fading anytime soon. And it’s so unfair to the Outsider, for Corvo to keep feeling like this and holding it back. To always be on the lookout for any signal, any sign that would permit him to reveal even a little of what’s in his heart, when he knows damn well he’ll never get one.

Corvo will be brusque about it; he’ll speak plainly. The Outsider can decide what he wants to do with that information, whether it’s to put space between them, or disappear for another long span of unbearable months, or…however else he wants to keep away from Corvo while Corvo stamps out this fire.

If it came to that, perhaps Emily would agree to give him a day off. To do what, he doesn’t know, but the thought of trying to hold up under a barrage of meetings after _that_ …he’d fucking deserve a day for himself. And anyway, Wyman’s back from Morley—arrived the other night. They’re quick enough with sword and wits both. Emily could do worse, in terms of temporary Royal Protectors.

Corvo will tell the Outsider as soon as this investigation is over, and it’s for the best. It _will_ be for the best.

Fuck. It’s never any different. _For the best_ really does mean letting something go. Every time.

Corvo glances down toward the Outsider. He can just see a tuft of black hair above the striped arm of the sofa. _Tell him. Tell him, tell him, tell him._

He will.

***

Thunder rumbles in the distance.

From the dark rooftop of the Office of the High Overseer, Corvo and the Outsider look up.

It’s been cloudy all evening, but the wind hasn’t changed. The air doesn’t feel heavy with the threat of rain. Even if it did, they’ll barely be inside for twenty minutes. If they do their job right, no one will ever know they were there. They may be able to bring Gideon in before he realizes the incriminating evidence is gone.

The job won’t take long, is the point.

“We’ll take the rain route out if we need to,” says Corvo, turning back to the boiler room hatch. “But we should have time.”

The Outsider’s eyes crinkle above his kerchief. “I thought weather and optimism don’t mix.”

Corvo’s heart pitter-patters pleasantly. “We’ll give it a try tonight.” He slips his lock picks from his pocket and gets to work on the lock sunk into the side of the hatch.

The Outsider, crouched beside him, watches.

It is distracting.

Corvo pulls his lower lip between his teeth and tries to concentrate on the infinitesimal give of the springs, the rise and fall of the pins. He counts twice to make sure: “Eight pins.”

“ _Eight?_ ” The Outsider lets his knees hit the ground. He settles back on his heels. “I should’ve brought a book.”

Corvo smirks. “Won’t take long.”

The Outsider arches a doubtful brow.

Corvo’s all too happy to impress. He closes his eyes and focuses. The slightest twitch against his fingers tells him he’s found the binding pin. He adjusts the pick, and then the next pin springs up, and the next.

He may be all but decorative in Emily’s council meetings, but here—he knows how to do this. He knows how to run an investigation and work through a mission. He knows how to melt into shadows and break into buildings and make locks fall apart in his hands.

The last pin drops into place, and Corvo twists the wrench. He hears the click of the internal shank release, and the entire hatch jumps half an inch upward, opening.

When he glances over, the Outsider is staring at him in undisguised wonder.

Corvo’s face heats beneath the mask. “You do it for a few decades, you’ll get that fast, too.”

“You don’t need to be modest,” says the Outsider. “That was well done.”

“Then—thanks.” _Tell him_. “Ready?”

“Ready.” The Outsider adjusts his cowl, his kerchief. His delighted eyes flicker, becoming more serious. Focused. “Let’s go.”

Corvo slowly— _slowly_ —hauls the hatch open by the handle. It doesn’t squeak. The percussive rumbling of the boiler pours out to greet them. A ladder bolted to the hatch disappears down into the pitch-darkness. The Outsider goes first. Corvo follows, closing the hatch behind him and twisting the lock shut from the inside.

With the light seeping in from under the door, his eyes adjust quickly. The Outsider is already down on a knee so he can peer through the keyhole. Corvo, over him, watches the beam of pale keyhole light illuminate the Outsider’s left eye.

They’re standing close. They’ve got no choice; the boiler room is one-third ladder, two-thirds boiler. The Outsider shifts, and one of Corvo’s knee nudges into his ribs, but the Outsider doesn’t try to move away. His attention doesn’t waver from the keyhole.

There were other boiler rooms—and plenty of other ways in—but this one’s closest to Gideon’s office. Once a particular Overseer passes the boiler room door and turns down the hallway directly across from it, they’ll have a guaranteed two minutes to make it into Gideon’s office—two doors to the left of the boiler room, at the end of the hall.

It’s just after eleven—the emptiest and quietest the building will be all night. Gideon’s long gone; he calls it quits at ten o’clock every evening. Only seven Overseers patrol the building at this hour, and by now, Corvo and the Outsider know their every footstep.

The correct Overseer must have gone by, because the Outsider sits back on his heels and rises swiftly. Corvo twitches back to make room and accidentally gets a lungful of that faint, clean, almost herbal scent of whatever bath salts the Outsider uses. Like every other time it’s happened, Corvo’s heart gives a hopeful little leap.

Light spills into the boiler room. The Outsider leaves it first. Corvo follows, shutting the door soundlessly behind him, hot with self-loathing. _For Void’s sake, focus. If you don’t, you’re both in troub—_

He nearly walks into the Outsider, who’s stopped cold, reaching a hand back toward Corvo.

Frowning, Corvo looks down the empty hall, and—oh.

Shingled metal electrical conductors bracket the hallway on both sides, no more than a meter in front of the Outsider. From the far conductor, a thick, braided cable trails to the ground then runs against the floorboards until it reaches a wall-mounted tank of whale oil nearby.

It’s a wall of light. Deactivated, fortunately. No sizzling blue sparks, no faint but unmistakable scent of ozone piercing one’s sinuses. No strange shiver emanating from the air itself.

Even so. It’s—Corvo hasn’t seen a wall of light indoors in years. And not in a space like this.

They did _not_ see it from the rooftops. Even through the barred windows. They must never have gotten an angle on it.

The Outsider looks back at Corvo, his eyes grim. He nods down the hall and lifts a brow. _Should we continue?_

Any other mission, Corvo would say no—they’ll try again another time, because if they missed this, then they’re missing other things, too. Big things.

But they’re only going a few steps down the hall, then coming back. The wall of light is deactivated, and the building is nearly empty, so it’s unlikely it’ll have a reason to turn on.

Corvo nods back.

Silent as shadows, they step through the dead wall, and on down the hall toward Gideon’s office.

As they go, they pass a hallway to the right—empty, as they expected, and leading to a dead end. It’s useful only for the additional escape routes they plotted through a few of its various rooms.

Just past that hallway, also to the right, is one of the building’s two interrogation chambers. Corvo spares a glance into it through the large glass partition, making sure it’s empty, and it is. They haven’t ever seen anyone interrogated at this time of night.

After the interrogation room, their current hallway ends. To the right, it branches off toward another section of the building. To the left are Gideon’s double office doors.

It means the interrogation chamber sits diagonally across from Gideon’s office.

Ambrose fucking Gideon. _He can probably see the chamber from his desk, if his doors are open,_ Corvo thinks.

There’s no time to suppress a shudder. They’ve arrived. Corvo crouches in front of the doors, lock picks in hand again. It’s just four pins—quick work. The Outsider stands over him, facing outward, with a clear vantage of the hall they came from and the hallway they won’t need.

The lock clicks softly. Corvo slips his pick and wrench away, then disables the tripwire trigger and rises to his feet. He’s ready to press inside, but the Outsider whispers, “Corvo.”

Corvo turns. Directly across from Gideon’s doors, ten paces down the hallway, are the conductors for a second deactivated wall of light.

Well, fuck.

They step back into Gideon’s office, closing the doors and throwing the latch. The room is dark, but the open drapes let in the orange glow from streetlamps outside. It’s enough to see by. They regroup immediately at Gideon’s desk.

“ _How did we miss those walls of light?_ ” whispers the Outsider, barely a sound at all. His eyes are narrowed, his brows low.

“The angles must have been wrong.” Corvo turns to the window with a view of the building they perched atop last week. Before they were rained out. “Bet they were live when we caught him in here. They’re probably _only_ live when he’s here. The way the walls are set up—they’re guarding him.” Gideon’s even more paranoid than Corvo thought, and no wonder. The man's imprisoned scores of innocent people directly beneath where he works each day.

The Outsider's shoulders fall with a long, slow breath out. “Void, I thought the one by the boiler room was active when I first saw it. Nearly jumped out of my coat.”

“So did I.” Corvo glances the Outsider over. “You all right?”

“Fine.” It’s almost a grumble. Whether the Outsider is pissed at Gideon or embarrassed that he jumped, Corvo can’t tell. “I think I’m starting to understand what you said. About how surprise can throw opponents off their game.”

Corvo wants to ask him if he’s been thrown far enough off his game that they should call this whole thing off. Come back another time. But the Outsider just indicates the room, looking around. He says, “Let’s get searching.”

Corvo nods. “Let’s.”

Gideon’s personal office is luxurious as any room in Dunwall Tower. It’s hung with heavy red drapes, all shining with the symbol of the Abbey stitched in gold thread. Two plush sofas frame the door, oil paintings hanging above them. There’s even a fully stocked bar cart. Bookshelves line some of the room. It smells dusty. Stale.

The large desk anchoring the right side of the room doesn’t have much on it that looks like evidence. A few stacked files, a few folded notes. Corvo starts picking through the files while the Outsider begins to scour the room for the safe combination.

Thunder rumbles once more. It’s a little louder than last time. _As if we weren’t already on the clock_ , Corvo thinks, exasperated.

In the files, he flips past today’s schedule; nothing incriminating. He sifts through a detailed list of funds allocated; nothing new. He sets each page back down carefully, as they were, and reaches for one of the folded notes.

It’s written in code, but it’s one of the simplest ciphers there is. One of the first Corvo ever learned. _Smart_ , he remembers the Outsider saying, _but rarely clever._

The note says: _Followed the target back to the new FD—into the bank on Seton Ave. Send Elkhart to check employees._

Corvo frowns. His contact, the one with access to the Hatter’s books, works at the bank on Seton in the new Financial District. Is she the “target” in the note?

He unfolds the other note. _Found who we need. Bringing them in ASAP._

The Outsider’s coming closer. “Find something?”

Corvo sets the note aside. He can check on his contact later. “Not yet. Safe code?”

“Not yet.”

Corvo gets to work on the locks on the right side of Gideon’s desk. They’re quick; the first one comes apart in seconds, and he checks the drawer.

More file folders. He lifts out a stack and gets looking. The first two are useless—meeting notes, and boring meetings, from what he can glean from skimming it.

But the third folder.

Corvo finds a schedule of some kind, measured in days of progress and numbered phases, so it’s impossible to tell what it’s actually scheduling. Next are a pile of documents brimming with legalese—non-disclosure arrangements between the Abbey and various merchants. Corvo doesn’t recognize the merchants’ names.

The Outsider’s back at his side, peering at the documents. “Why would they need to silence a handful of merchants? Does it say what the Abbey bought from them?”

“No.” Corvo flips between the pages. “Odd.”

“Wait.” The Outsider lifts the next bundle of papers. “This is an invoice.” He holds it up so they can both see it when they lean in close.

It’s an invoice for lumber. Boatloads of it. All different kinds. “It must be what we saw out back,” Corvo says. “Look—and here’s one for…sand? Yeah. Sacks of sand.”

“I don’t remember seeing sacks of sand.”

“We saw sacks of something,” says Corvo, thinking back to it. “Remember—that stack of them along the back wall that leads down to the harbor.” He glances over the lumber order again. Oak, birch, Serkonan walnut. “Hunh.”

“What is it?” asks the Outsider.

“Just—trying to figure out what they’re building. Birch is basically kindling; it’s useless in construction. Oak could do the job, but look—there’s only a few beams, and the rest are logs. And Serkonan walnut…” He frowns. “There’s not enough in this order to _build_ anything with it. You can’t even use it as firewood, since it doesn’t burn.”

In the silence that follows, he glances over at the Outsider.

Who’s looking right at him. Even in the dim light, Corvo can see the Outsider’s clear eyes shine with open fondness.

Corvo’s face goes warm again. _Tell him_. “Strangely enough,” he mutters, “lumber is something I know a lot about. My dad…”

“I know.” It’s said so gently.

And the Outsider _would_ know, wouldn’t he. Corvo’s struck by the fact that the Outsider knows him in a way no one else ever has. No one’s cared to. Not for a long time. And maybe—Void. Is it possible Corvo knows the Outsider better than anyone?

 _Tell him_.

Swallowing hard, Corvo looks back at the invoices. “I don’t know if we can use these. But why they’d need non-disclosure arrangements for a few orders, I can’t fathom.”

“They clearly don’t want people finding out what they’re building.”

“Right. So what _are_ they building, that’s the question.”

“Let’s keep looking,” says the Outsider.

But there isn’t anything else useful in Gideon’s desk. Nothing about deals with the Hatters, or faked heretical charges.

“Shit,” Corvo mutters at last, rising, looking around like the evidence might hop off the bookshelves and into his hands. Well—maybe he should take a look at the bookshelves. See if there’s a mechanism for a secret room they never saw Gideon open. If they missed the walls of light, the diagrams in that volume of Dunwall’s public buildings could’ve missed secret rooms. Unlikely, but…

He starts for the closest bookshelf.

From far down the hall, someone _shouts._

Corvo goes still. Someone else starts shouting, too, a frustrated garble, and then they can hear scuffling, and a distant, “ _Guard!_ Get a hold of—” The voices go muffled again.

Corvo looks back at the Outsider, whose hands are paused at the knife hilts at his hips, his eyes on the door. They flicker over to Corvo.

The scuffle is coming closer.

Corvo puts a hand on the stock of his crossbow and moves to the door, then crouches to peer through the keyhole. The Outsider hovers behind him, above him. Ready.

Through the keyhole, Corvo can see the bottom half of the partitioned interrogation room. Some of the glass, too, but at this angle, not into the room.

The voices are growing closer. He pulls his crossbow free.

But the voices go muffled. The glass partition shudders. The light changes as people move into the space. Over the voices, he hears—something low, grating. Constant. So eerie that every hair stands up on the back of his neck.

It’s an Overseer music box.

*

*

*

And if the Overseers are using a music box, they’ve got someone who can actually use Void magic. Someone Marked. Someone whose powers they’re suppressing.

The Outsider stifles a rush of anger. _So much for Daud taking care of his own._

Void, he hopes it’s not Ava Comber.

He shifts back as Corvo stands, but then Corvo’s coming in close, and the Outsider feels himself go completely shock-still for the second time in the last two minutes. Third time in the last fifteen. “We should get going,” Corvo murmurs at his ear. “There’s at least three people in the interrogation room. If we can’t find the safe code, and the information isn’t here…”

“Yes.” But that safe code _has_ to be nearby. Even if there isn’t anything useful in the safe—which they assumed from the start—the Outsider wants to make _sure_. While they’re here. “Let me just check around the desk for the code?”

Corvo hesitates, glancing toward the door, but he nods. “I’ll keep an eye.” He heads back to the keyhole.

The Outsider goes to the desk, crouching to run his hands carefully along the underside, into the crevices and decorative notches. As he goes, he gives the room one last skim for anything he may have missed. There’s the tall bookshelves, there’s one magnificent potted tree, there’s the window with a view of the building across from it, there’s another window with a view straight down Margin Street, there’s an oil painting of—

His eyes snap back to Margin Street. A block away, illuminated in the streetlamps, a shop sign juts over the sidewalk. At the bottom of the sign, the numerical address is carved large and seriffed: _358._

And he’s crouching at about the same height someone would be if they were sitting at the desk.

“Corvo,” he whispers. “I think I’ve got it.”

Just as Corvo’s rising, someone screams—from much closer than before. The interrogation is underway.

Thrumming with nerves and fury— _there’s nothing we can do for them—_ the Outsider hurries to the safe and starts turning the dials. Corvo meets him there. _3…5…_ when the _8_ clicks into place, the door swings soundlessly open.

There’s the standard fare: a couple of gold bars, a pistol and a scant handful of bullets. But there’s no shelving, because propped upright and tilted into a corner are a series of large, rolled documents. From the hanging curl of one edge, it looks like a blueprint.

The Outsider plucks it out and unfurls it.

Nausea turns his guts over. Even Corvo makes a quiet noise of disbelief. The Outsider manages, “At least we know what the lumber is for.”

It _is_ a blueprint. For a platform meant to burn multiple heretics at a time. Three steps on each side lead up to five stakes rising out of a pit of sand. Smaller, cartoonish illustrations helpfully detail how each stake would look when properly set up for a burning. The Outsider can practically smell the smoke. They can certainly hear the screams.

“I didn’t think Gideon could get any worse,” Corvo mutters. “Guess I stand corrected.”

“They can’t—” The Outsider knows how naive it sounds. He says it anyway. “But they can’t just execute heretics without a trial.”

“Gideon seemed to think they could. Guess he’d rather ask forgiveness than permission. We should take this with us, and the documents from the desk.”

The Outsider gives the blueprint to Corvo, who quickly folds it and tucks it into an interior coat pocket. “We need to go,” Corvo adds, giving the safe’s contents one more glance. “We have enough for…” He trails off, but the Outsider can practically hear the furrow in his brow.

Slowly, Corvo reaches back into the safe. From underneath the pistol, he pulls free a dark scrap of fabric. In the faint light coming in through the window, the Outsider can see the fabric’s charred, brittle edges.

It’s a blue silk handkerchief with a faint gold border.

Oh, Void. It’s—it’s the same handkerchief Corvo pressed into the Outsider’s hand during the shootout at the Call of the Sea. That the Outsider then completely lost track of in the scuffle.

 _I lost your handkerchief,_ he told Corvo, dazed and smoke-addled.

 _I don’t care about the handkerchief,_ Corvo said.

The handkerchief is so blatantly, obviously royal, it may as well be initialed.

They look at one another. The Outsider can’t see Corvo’s expression through the mask, but he knows his own is horrified. “Corvo—”

Corvo replaces the handkerchief beneath the pistol. “It’s not something we can take. They’d know someone working for the crown took the blueprints.”

The Outsider pulls down his kerchief, gulping air. He _could_ smell smoke. It was the singe on the handkerchief. “I lost it. I’m the one who—”

“It’s all right.” Corvo closes the safe and starts clicking the dial numbers back to their original positions. “They don’t have anything on me, or they would’ve struck already. It’s not a crime to go to a bar.”

“No, but’s a crime to be the masked felon, who may have been _seen_ at that bar.”

“Too many variables. It’d be conjecture.” Corvo turns to the Outsider, and the Outsider must look truly panicked, because Corvo touches his arm—settles a heavy hand a few inches beneath his healing scar. “I don’t blame you. It’s all right. Come on.”

The Outsider pulls his kerchief back up, hating that his hands are starting to shake. _Corvo said it’s all right_. _Believe him._

Between the walls of light, the handkerchief, the screaming, he feels so off-kilter. So many variables have been altered, but—he reminds himself that they planned for this. They planned for everything. They’ll be fine.

Corvo quickly collects the relevant documents from the desk—not all of them, only a few—and then returns the file to the drawer. He skims his fingers down the padlocks, double-checking that they’re secure, and then they go back to the keyhole.

It’s a slow, gut-wrenching wait for the right Overseer to go past on his route, signaling that they’re all clear. Damn it. If Gideon’s office windows weren't barred, they could leave that way, but _no_.

Whoever’s in the interrogation chair is starting to lose their voice, from the sound of the screams. The Outsider can’t quite make out whatever the handlers are asking.

The next Overseer on the patrol route comes into view—but stops at the glass partition to look in on the interrogation. He stays so long that the next Overseer on the route joins him.

The Outsider’s gnawing the inside of his cheek to keep from fidgeting. Corvo’s hovering just above him, his crossbow ready.

“Peeping instead of patrolling, brother?” says the newcomer. “I’m surprised the High Overseer hasn’t come out to chastise you himself.”

“He can’t tell,” says the first Overseer. “The glass is half-silvered. Just looks like a mirror from the inside. He can’t see us—look.”

The Outsider is treated to a show of rude gestures. He drops his head, shaking it. This is taking too long, and it sounds like Gideon is in the interrogation room, just a few meters away. _At least no one will see us_ , the Outsider thinks. He was wondering how, short of a belly-to-the-ground crawl, they’d manage to avoid being seen through that window. There are other routes, of course, but the boiler room is so _close._

“We’re still all right,” Corvo murmurs above the Outsider. It’s near soundless. “They’ll move on. And the others will be at the interrogation awhile.”

“I hate that we can’t help,” the Outsider whispers back.

“So do I. But if we can do something with these documents, help will follow.”

The two Overseers leave together. The Outsider closes his eyes, counting steps in his mind. Twenty-five until they get to the end of the hall with the boiler room, and another twenty-five until the sound from opening the boiler room door won’t make them turn back. He and Corvo will have a few minutes to make it there. More than enough time.

They both shift, ready to move. “I’ll lock it from the outside,” whispers Corvo. “You go ahead.”

 _I will do no such thing._ But the Outsider nods. He opens the door just enough to slip into the hall. Corvo follows and shuts it softly, then crouches in front of it, his crossbow momentarily holstered, his lock picks back in his hands.

The Outsider sticks close and keeps his back to that interrogation chamber, telling himself he shouldn't look. Not if they can’t rescue whoever’s in the chair. He's already wondering how he'll ever forgive himself if he walks away once Corvo's done with the lock. Even if the information they found will help, it may take days to incriminate Gideon. Suspicious documents don’t mean a damn thing to someone in enough pain, now, to generate those kinds of screams.

Maybe he owes it to them to look. He can't save them, but he can take full damn responsibility for the way he’s knowingly about to leave them behind.

He looks.

There’s Gideon, his back to the Outsider. There are two Overseers, their masks gleaming in the harsh overhead light, one of them working a music box—the eerie racket all the more gut-twisting out here in the hall.

But bolted into the chair—

It’s not Ava. The Outsider takes in the woman’s blonde hair, shorn close at the sides, her bangs hanging in her eyes as she gasps for air. She’s bleeding from a split lip, her right eye starting to swell shut. Her left hand is bare, immobilized with an extra cuff on the arm of the chair.

Gideon’s bending over it with a knife. The Outsider’s Mark stands out black and crisp against the woman’s pale skin.

The Outsider manages, “Lettie?”—except—

It echoes.

Because Corvo said it, too.

He’s standing beside the Outsider, finished with the lock. His mask was pointed toward the interrogation chamber, but now it turns to the Outsider.

In a whisper, the Outsider manages, “You know Lettie Vainglass?”

Corvo’s head draws back on his shoulders. “ _I_ know—? She’s—of course I know her. She’s my contact. The one with access to the Hatters’ logbooks. How do _you_ know her?”

“She’s my banker. I Marked her years ago.” The Outsider looks back through the glass, his stomach turning. He’s seen this before—Overseers trying to manipulate the Mark, finding the limits of its bearer’s power if the Mark is damaged, or worse. Even in the Void, he’d been disgusted.

He still hadn't helped.

Guilt makes him a little breathless. Fear makes it worse. If they’re paying such close attention to Lettie’s Mark, so different from Daud’s… _Daud made everyone forget,_ the Outsider reminds himself. Even if they're asking Lettie about him and his district, everyone calls him Nameless. The Hatters know that. Gideon must know it, too. They've got no reason to think the Outsider has anything to do with the Void, or who he used to be. Gideon won't think that Lettie is anything more than a typical brand of heretic. 

Corvo’s mask hasn't turned away from him. “I thought there were only—”

“I’ve always kept a banker Marked. My accounts have been accumulating interest as long as banks have existed.”

Corvo’s hushed voice indicates nothing short of astonishment. “But you said you never saw yourself getting free of the Void.”

This is _not_ the place for this conversation, but they’re having it anyway. “Just because I can’t see something happening doesn’t mean it won’t. I didn’t see myself fa—” the Outsider stumbles over the word, horrified at what was about to leave his mouth. “—cilitating a break-in at the Office of the High Overseer, either, but here we are.”

They look around. They have another minute before the next Overseer arrives—assuming the careful timing of their routes is still accurate.

The Outsider looks back at Lettie.

She’s one of the last of his Marked, and by now, after so many visits and so many months, she’s a friend. _Ava did warn me that Gideon was trying to find out how my coffers run so deep_. He never got around to alerting Lettie as he’d planned. Things got in the way—the tavern, the investigation. His own damn feelings for Corvo, eclipsing almost everything else. Including sense, apparently. He’s been foolish. Absolutely puerile. And now one of his friends is paying the price.

 _I’ve gotten her into this_ , he thinks. _I have to get her out._

The Outsider looks at Corvo. “I can’t leave without her.”

There’s the tiniest smile in Corvo’s voice even as he sighs. “I _knew_ you were going to say that.” He flicks his coat open and pulls out his crossbow.

The Outsider expected him to protest. “You did?”

“You said you’re done standing by when you can help, right?” Corvo’s checking his brace of extra sleep darts. “And she’s my contact. I won’t leave her.”

“You’re afraid she might reveal something.”

The mask tilts as though the thought never occurred to Corvo. “She’s a friend. And she works for me. She's my responsibility, too.”

It rises to the Outsider’s lips; he barely holds it back in time: _Void, Corvo, I adore you_. Gulping, trying to focus, the Outsider looks back through the glass.

Gideon’s taken a step away from Lettie to scribble a note. He's writing in— _oh, for Void’s sake._

Gideon cradles a slim leather-bound notebook in one hand and writes in it with the other. He’s a good deal of the way into the book. The fan of previous pages shows lines and lines of ink, written and rewritten. Various other missives jut from every side of it, tucked close against the binding. Finished writing, Gideon shuts the book and tucks it into an interior coat pocket.

“Shit,” Corvo mutters. “There’s our evidence.”

Gideon picks up the knife again.

The Outsider looks away, nausea rising as Lettie begins to scream. “At least we know where it is. What do we do?”

“If I can dart all three of them fast enough—or two, if you can choke another one out—we can take Lettie _and_ the book.”

“All right.” His heart’s back to hammering. “I’ll let you lead, here.”

Corvo nods. “Let’s get to cover. Back in that middle hall—” He goes still except for one hand, rising. “You hear that?”

Lettie’s stopped screaming. The Overseers aren’t speaking, either. Even the music box is quiet.

They look back into the interrogation room.

Lettie is slumped in her seat, her face wet with tears. The Overseers are staring at one another, seemingly frozen. Gideon’s staring right back at them. Even as they watch, his bloody knife slips from his fingers to the floor.

“ _How?_ ” Gideon’s asking, bewildered; they can hear him now that he’s partially facing them and not Lettie. He staggers back against a nearby table, hands in his crisp hair. The Outsider would say Gideon’s doing it for dramatic effect, but there’s nothing feigned about that blank, gaping shock. Gideon breathes, “How did we—how did we just— _forget him?_ ”

Cold adrenaline douses the Outsider’s heart. _Forget who?_

He doesn’t know why he thinks it.

He already knows.

“It must have been the Void,” one of the Overseers says, just as bewildered as Gideon. “Something in the Void must have changed—”

“Twisted our minds,” says the other Overseer. “It must have interfered with our memories.”

Gideon looks back at Lettie, his eyes maniacal now, barely holding himself back from an abyss of panic. “You’re going to tell us exactly how the Outsider made us all forget him,” Gideon snarls. “And then you’re going to tell me exactly where I can find him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok if you cannot tell i had a WHALE of a time trying to describe wtf this setting looks like as i see it, so have this very professional-looking diagram i definitely did not throw together in haste: https://ibb.co/Qn4VvJc (arrows indicate overseer patrol routes).
> 
> ANYWAY
> 
> damn i really wanted all the stress to be neatly contained within two chapters but it looks like it may be three. in terms of C&TO's stress, from start to finish it is barely more than 24 hours. so. IT’S GONNA BE FINE, EVERYBODY’S GONNA WALK OUTTA THIS ELATED EXCEPT GIDEON, who will get what he deserves. our boys will, too (what they deserve is a little different because it's THE WORLD instead of a punch in the face).
> 
> so.
> 
> next time on AWIBA: “right up until the end, i thought i’d find a way to escape.”; me somehow being an even bigger bastard


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiii!
> 
> shoutout to [risenlucifer](http://risenlucifer.tumblr.com/), who helped me finagle that one scene specifically so I could keep THAT moment, because i wanted it to be there so bad, SO BAD, you don’t even know. tbh you might know.
> 
> anyway this chapter is like. hmm. gird yourselves? the angst really kicks into high gear here. but this is the worst of it! or at least the worst all in one place. >_> also there's canon-typical violence. and pistols.
> 
> (and gahhh as usual what the _hell_ , why are you all so nice to me even last week, when the plot started coming to collect, i just. i cannot yodel enough about how incredible each of you are. thank you thank you thank you.) 
> 
> <3

The Outsider can’t quite move. He feels like he’s staring at a live grenade again, rolling and ticking across the tiles, new and terrifying paths unfurling in its wake.

Corvo locks a hand into the crook of the Outsider’s arm, his grip bruising. “We need to go.”

 _The High Overseer knows who I am._

Through the partition, Gideon and his two Overseer goons are back to tormenting Lettie.

 _Lettie knows where to find me_. The Outsider looped her in long ago about the tavern his funds were restoring. The first _and_ second times. She knows Tev, she knows the district, and if Gideon decides to skip the Hatters and send his Overseers directly there—no, no, _no._ The Outsider’s heart is thundering in his ears. “But we said we’d—”

“I’ll come back for her _._ ” Corvo’s grip tightens on the Outsider’s arm, now with an urgent tug toward the boiler room. “We need to get you out of here. _Now._ ”

Corvo’s right. He’s right. They have to go. If the Outsider’s caught and they actually know who he is, it’s bad enough. If Corvo gets caught, _with him_ —

The Outsider nods, shaking off his daze. “Yes. Let’s go.”

Corvo’s hand loosens, but only marginally. “Then—”

“ _HEY._ ”

They whip around so fast that the Outsider’s cowl falls back.

An Overseer has stopped at the other end of the hall near the boiler room. Right by the wall of light. He’s off his usual patrol route, and he’s staring at the Outsider and Corvo. His hand inches toward the pistol at his belt. “What are you two _—_ ”

Corvo lifts his crossbow. The Outsider hears the trigger in the same instant the Overseer stumbles, a sleep dart sprouting from one of his meaty arms.

But it’s a big Overseer. As he goes down, he staggers toward the whale oil tank and makes a grab for the lever.

The wall of light grinds out a low hum that rockets to a high pitch, loud enough to call souls back from the Void. The noise fades completely as the conductors start up, flashing and sparking, every lightning-arc between them cracking like a bullwhip.

It’s blocking the boiler room exit now.

“Lovely,” mutters Corvo, turning for the other direction. “New plan.”

Except Gideon and his two Overseers come charging into the hall—and then freeze as they see Corvo and the Outsider.

The Outsider grabs for Corvo just as Corvo begins to turn back, his crossbow already on its way up.

Quick as Corvo is, there's still enough time for Gideon to look right at the Outsider.

 _Damn and shite._ The Outsider’s cowl is at his shoulders. He’s dressed head-to-toe in black. Green-gray eyes or not, kerchief or not, the rest of him looks just as he ever did in the Void.

Gideon’s eyes flare wide. The word starts to form in his mouth: _Outsi—_

The larger of the two Overseers drops, a sleep dart at his open shirt collar; he half crushes the music box when he lands on top of it.

Gideon breaks for the wall of light.

Corvo reloads and fires after him, but the sleep dart explodes against the electricity just as Gideon slips through— _of course the wall is attuned to him_ —and disappears around the corner.

There’s no time to panic. The other Overseer is already rushing Corvo, sword in the air, as Corvo reloads again.

The Outsider grabs his knives, and his mind empties of everything except movement. He catches the Overseer’s incoming swing on both of his blades, then shoves back hard enough that the Overseer stumbles—and continues stumbling right to the ground, a sleep dart newly embedded in his arm. Corvo lowers his crossbow.

They’re alone again. They look at one another.

If Gideon’s the only one—so far—who can ring any alarms, then they have a moment. The Outsider sheathes his knives. “Let’s grab Lettie.”

Lettie’s unconscious. Her left hand is a red, gory mess, and the neutral tones of her expensive but sensible trousers and silk blouse are spattered with blood. A bump at the back of her head bleeds sluggishly. “Must have bludgeoned her,” says Corvo, hitting the release that makes her cuffs spring open. “I’ll—”

An alarm howls to sudden, piercing life over the loudspeakers, a repeating trill with a second’s pause between blasts. The lights flicker. From somewhere distant, there’s a frantic, metallic racket, then the sound of iron _CLANG_ ing against stone, over and over—the barricades sealing every window to the outside. Beyond the interrogation room, another low hum begins and then slides up to a higher pitch before it fades into the snapping hiss of electrical discharge.

The second wall of light’s been activated, then. And the building’s in lockdown.

It clears away most—if not all—of their escape plans in one fell swoop.

“Shit,” Corvo says, but it sounds bewildered. Not even a hint of fear. He reaches for his crossbow. “Can you—?”

“Got her.” The Outsider lifts Lettie over his shoulder, and is relieved to find he can still move freely. “Let’s go.” He follows Corvo from the interrogation room. “You seem to know what you’re doing, considering the plan is falling to pieces.”

“Plans falling to pieces is the one thing you can always guarantee.” Corvo leads them back toward Gideon’s office, opposite of the direction Gideon fled and then around that corner. Toward the second wall of light. As they approach it, the Outsider’s hair starts to stand on end. Fuzziness vibrates through the air; he can feel it from head to boot. “That’s why we have backups of our backups,” Corvo adds. “We’ll take the maintenance room.”

The Outsider frowns. The maintenance room would work—there’s a hatch in the ceiling that leads to the roof—but the door is ten paces away. On the _other side_ of the wall of light.

All they have on this side is a fuse box. From the divots, the panel looks like it’ll take a rewire tool.

But of course, they didn’t _bring_ a rewire tool. Because they did not know there would be two entire Void-cursed _walls of light_ trapping them in the Office of the High Overseer.

Lettie is getting heavier by the moment. The Outsider says, “And we’re getting through this wall by—what. Sheer force of will?”

Corvo’s stopped at the fuse box, pulling his pry-bar from his coat. “I can rewire it by hand.” He jams the pry-bar into the seam of the panel and cranks it loose. “Just need a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute.” Though Void help him, the Outsider wishes he did, so he’d have the chance to fully appreciate yet another of Corvo’s innumerable skills. “Gideon’s going to come back up that boiler-room hallway any second with reinforcements—”

“I was getting there.” Corvo barely sounds bothered. He’s already plucking wires loose, flinching back and shaking out his fingertips as sparks snap at them. “Take my crossbow. And there’s a stun mine in my coat. You can cover me.”

Maybe that would work on the remaining four Overseers in the building, plus Gideon. But the alarm’s been rung, and it’s still blaring. Overseers will be spilling out of their bunkhouses out back, some just off shifts, some about to come on.

 _However many there are,_ thinks the Outsider, _they don’t know who Corvo is—for now._ And they’d only discard Lettie, now that they’ve learned something useful from her.

But the Outsider—Gideon recognized him. Bolted on sight.

There’s no doubt: when the High Overseer comes back, he’ll bring a crowd. And if the three of them are going to get out of this...

The Outsider sets Lettie down beside Corvo, her back to the wall.

Corvo’s mask flashes his way, then back to the panel. “What are you doing?”

The Outsider pulls his cowl back up. “Saving all three of us.”

Corvo looks at him fully, hands pausing. “What—”

“You saw Gideon recognize me. He’s coming back with a whole legion. I’ll go and distract them—draw them away from you and Lettie, and then—”

“No.” Corvo turns to the panel once more. “Where would you even—every window in this place is— _shit_.” He shakes out his hand again.

 _We don’t have time for this_. “I’ll go out through one in the central hallway. I can use _my_ pry-bar on the barricades. You rewire that panel, get to the roof, and get Lettie out. I’ll lose myself in the alleys, and then catch up at the skiff—”

“This isn’t a debate.” There’s a terse, taut note working itself into Corvo’s voice. “Cut the theatrics—”

“I’m not asking permission.” The Outsider forces himself to take a step back. Then another. He hates this, _hates this_ , but what else can he do? “If they catch all three of us, we’re going right to a heretic’s cell. Void only knows what they’ll do to me, but I can guarantee that if they catch you, Emily’s going to take the fall for it.”

 _That_ breaks through.

“Shit,” Corvo mutters, turning from the fuse box. “ _Shit._ You’re right. I know you’re right.”

Relief mingles with a stab of dread. _We really are separating._ “Then I’ll see you at—”

“Wait. Just—wait.” Corvo shoves his mask up and rips it away.

 _What—_ the Outsider’s protest doesn’t make it past his lips, because every time he sees Corvo’s face again after hours of going without, his heart does a strange, insistent little flip.

But this time it’s a _leap_. Without the mask, Corvo’s face is a wide-open wreck of desperation.

“Corvo,” the Outsider starts, baffled at the look and the risk both—but then Corvo steps into the Outsider’s space, _close_ , offering up the stun mine.

The Outsider takes it, wondering why Corvo would need to get this close just to—

Corvo’s now-empty hand slips up between the Outsider’s cowl and kerchief, where it curls around the back of the Outsider’s neck and _grips_. Gently. Carefully.

Heat from Corvo’s hand sinks through the back of the Outsider’s kerchief and collar, pouring goosebumps down his shoulders. The blaring alarm, his rising panic—it all fades even as his frantic pulse doubles. He makes himself lift his gaze from the stun mine to meet Corvo’s eyes.

They’ve gone hard. Blazing. He's so close that his mask-ruffled fringe brushes against the Outsider’s own wild strands. Corvo says, “You meet us at that boat.”

“Don’t wait for me. It might take me longer—”

For half a heartbeat, something anguished twists in Corvo’s face. His thumb sweeps in a heated arc behind the Outsider’s ear. Bare skin above the kerchief. “You _meet us there_ ,” Corvo repeats, jaw clenched.

“All right.” The Outsider can barely say it. Barely dares to breathe, if it means this will stop. If not for his kerchief, he’s fairly certain he’d feel the heat of Corvo’s words on his own lips. “I’ll meet you.”

Corvo takes his hand back. The desperation is gone; now he’s wearing the cold, blank look of someone with no choices left. His mask goes back on. He’s already plucking at the fuse box once more. He says, “Better hurry.”

The Outsider has never wanted anything as much as he wants to stay right here. To grab Corvo by the lapels, yank his mask off again, and demand what in the _Void_ that entire— _everything_ just was. To not throw himself into a chase with the people leading the organization Void-bent on destroying him.

But leaving Corvo behind means that for once, the Outsider has a chance to protect Corvo. He'll take it. He'd take any chance at all, if it meant keeping Corvo safe.

He turns and hurries back up the hallway.

***

Before gunfire shatters the glass above him and the Overseers grab him, the Outsider actually makes it halfway out a window.

It’s far enough past the sash for one big lungful of night air, now heavy with the promise of rain. _Optimism_ , he thinks.

Then the glass shatters and he’s forced to turn, covering himself with his arms. The Overseers drag him back into the building.

Gideon _did_ send a legion. The Outsider counts twelve brawny brutes in total, each with mitts even Meat-hands Monty would respect. The stun mine took down a few of them, but not enough. Two Overseers paw the Outsider’s knives out of his sheaths, and two more get him moving with sharp orders and gestures from their pistols. His kerchief falls to his neck. Shards of glass spill from the folds of his clothing. _Let it have been enough time_. _Let Corvo and Lettie have gotten away._

In the hallway, the Overseers circle the Outsider, pistols still pointed. As if they could shoot him from so close without their brothers taking the same bullets. Before they can bark more orders, another Overseer comes around the corner. “High Overseer!”

It’s then that the Outsider notices Ambrose Gideon, standing just beyond the circle while his men do all the work. He looks rumpled. Pissed off. No less pissed when he turns to the approaching Overseer. “What is it?”

“The other two intruders. We can’t find them.”

Gideon huffs. Lettie's blood is still drying on his gloves. “Then the wall of light must have vaporized them.”

“The wall of light wasn’t running,” says the Overseer, and the Outsider feels lightheaded with relief.

Gideon’s face goes apoplectic. “Then they’re close. _Find them_.”

 _They’ll already be gone,_ the Outsider thinks. _It’s just twenty seconds from the maintenance hatch to the closest rooftop. Maybe a few more seconds, with a passenger, but not much._

As Gideon turns to him, he meets the High Overseer’s gaze and holds it.

Maybe he should be afraid, but now that he knows Corvo and Lettie are safe...what is there to fear? He’s watched Overseers question and torture and burn heretics for centuries. He knows every last trick, every last razor-edged, molten-hot implement they could use. He knows how their ceaseless fear of the occult makes them weak-minded fools who wouldn’t know true heresy if it broke into their enclave to steal evidence.

What could they possibly do to him that he hasn’t already seen done? Whatever they do, whatever they want from him—nothing can surprise him. There’s a power in that.

The Outsider lets his jaw lift a fraction, lets his brows sink and the corner of his mouth turn up. He pulls his shoulders back. _If they still think I’m the terror from the Void…let them._

Gideon’s anger fades to wariness, but when he sees that the Outsider isn’t making any moves to escape, the wariness contorts into something like surprise. And then triumph.

“Well, well, _well_ ,” Gideon drawls, smug like he’s the first to ever think of repeating the word, “the Outsider himself finally deigns to walk among us. _Here!_ Of all places. Maybe we forgot you before, but now…” Gideon lifts his hands, inviting the Overseers around him to notice. “Behold—the keeper of the Void.”

Silence meets this proclamation. The Overseers shift, glancing at each other behind their raised pistols. One of them says, “The what?”

“The Outsider,” Gideon says, faltering. His ivory face is starting to go splotchy red. A few pomade-stiff strands of hair have fallen to his forehead. “The— _the_ _Outsider_.”

“Outside of what?” someone asks.

The Outsider keeps his face carefully blank, but he’s as confused as Gideon. If Lettie jogged Gideon’s memories, and the memories of those other two still-unconscious Overseers… _Why doesn’t it work on_ these _Overseers?_

More hair falls into Gideon’s face as he twitches to look at the rest of the Overseers. Everyone’s confusion is clear even through their masks. Glowering, Gideon shoulders his way into the circle between his men. “All that apostate had to do was tell us your name,” he snarls, “and we understood. We _remembered_.”

_Maybe it has to come from one of my Marked?_

“But now,” Gideon continues, “you—you’ve already tampered with their minds again, haven’t you.”

The Outsider says, “Have I?”

Gideon takes a step closer. The crisp hair against his forehead trembles with the force of his anger. “I don’t know what kind of perverted magic you used. But if you meddled in their heads before, you can do it again.”

The Outsider makes a show of trying not to smile in confirmation. It gets harder to hold back when he sees Gideon’s eyes darken further. _A direct hit._ Men like Gideon fear nothing so much as being laughed at.

“Or maybe you didn’t,” snaps Gideon. “You _are_ powerless, aren’t you. No dead black eyes, no viscera in the air—you’re human, somehow.”

“I can walk the world in the forms I choose.” The Outsider lifts a brow and reminds himself: _Void-voice_. “Did you forget who inspired your fourth stricture?”

“Then show me,” says Gideon, lurching closer. He’s a meter away now. “Show me those black eyes, Outsider.”

The Outsider tries to appear bored; he looks at the other Overseers. “He thinks he can command me like a hound.”

Gideon smashes him across the face.

The Outsider was waiting for it, but doesn’t quite get away clean; Gideon’s fist splits the skin of his cheek instead of fracturing the bone. But Gideon’s overspent momentum sends him tipping past. As he goes, the Outsider grabs Gideon’s wrist in one hand and shoves _down_ on Gideon’s shoulder blade with the other. Gideon hits the floor on both knees as the Outsider twists his arm up behind him.

In the ring, Corvo was relatively gentle when he put the Outsider in the same hold. Thinking of what Gideon did to Lettie, to everyone in the cells two stories below, to his district and to Tev’s bar—what Gideon could do to Corvo, if they catch him—the Outsider gives himself permission to forego the same gentleness.

Gideon screams.

A pistol barrel touches the back of the Outsider’s head, just below the nape of his neck. It’s angled upward. “Let him _go_ ,” an Overseer says at his ear.

The Outsider releases Gideon, who drops right to the floor and scrambles backward, away. _I’ve learned enough._ _The slightest prod, and the pedestal he’s built for himself disintegrates. Maybe I can use that._

“Chain him up,” Gideon snarls. “Search him for more weapons. And keep a music box on him. I want it running until he’s secure.”

An Overseer starts hauling the Outsider’s arms behind his back. As they pat him down, they find the pry-bar and every other little odd and end Corvo equipped him with. The bonecharms, too. No one checks his boots. He wishes he’d thought to stash something in them.

Even expecting the manacles, he flinches as they bite an icy cold into his wrists. When they lock, he feels the heavy _click_ down to his bones. His pulse starts to race, his breaths quickening. _Manacles are not ropes,_ he reminds himself, hoping his face remains impassive. _And Overseers are not cultists._

Not the same ones, anyway. They certainly haven’t convinced him they’re friendly.

“Let’s get him below,” says one of the Overseers.

“No,” snaps Gideon, holding out a hand. “No, absolutely not.” He pushes his fallen hair back into place. “I don’t want him where he can corrupt anyone else. Or any of _you_.”

“Where then, High Overseer?”

Gideon looks the Outsider up and down, lip curling in disgust. He turns away. “Take him to Coldridge.”

*

*

*

“Corvo. We need to go.”

Corvo hasn’t looked away from the street since he stepped into the skiff. The land bobs in his line of sight, the Wrenhaving churning under the hull and the barnacled dock. Raindrops are just beginning to fall, and the air is fragrant with the threat of more. He says, “Just—just give him another minute.”

Billie makes an exasperated noise. “It’s been nearly a quarter-hour already. Those alarms may have shut off, but it doesn’t mean they’ve stopped looking for you. And we need to get this woman help. That bandage is barely holding her hand together. She needs stitches.”

What Lettie needs is an S&J. She’s Marked—it’ll do the work for them.

Billie moves to Corvo’s side in the tight space. She’s barely holding back the frustration—the fury—in her voice. “If he got out, he knows how to get back to the Tower.”

“And if he—” Corvo’s voice sticks in his throat. He heard the gunshots just as he was starting up the ladder in the maintenance room. He nearly put Lettie down on the roof and turned back. He _should_ have turned back. Why—why didn’t he turn back?

He didn’t turn back because the Outsider’s never lied to him. Not once. The Outsider said he’d meet them at the boat, so damn it all straight to the Void, the Outsider will meet them at this fucking boat.

Corvo clenches his left hand, still electric with the sense-memory of the soft, short hairs at the back of the Outsider’s neck, the tight knot of his kerchief. The warmth of him. The unbearable softness in his eyes, flickering up and down Corvo’s face. What in the blazes possessed Corvo to touch him in the first place?

Fear of this exact thing, maybe.

_I should go back for him. I should—_

“If they’ve captured him, we’ve got bigger problems.” Billie moves to the helm and starts up the motor—a sharp growl that makes Corvo jump. “I’m not letting you—or me—get caught along with him. We can come back once they’ve stopped tearing the place apart looking for you.”

The skiff churns the river to froth in its wake. Its acrid exhaust, mixed with the pelting rain, burns the back of Corvo’s throat. He watches the dock they’ve just left, waiting for a shadow to appear.

It never does.

*

*

*

Coldridge’s only entrance—a drawbridge that connects the prison’s high, rocky islet to the land—is adjacent to Dunwall Tower grounds. _Corvo’s probably not even back yet,_ thinks the Outsider as the carriage pulls up. _Maybe he’s still waiting for me with Billie and Lettie._

The thought is agony. 

_I looked Corvo in the eye and—_ his heart twists in his chest. _I promised him I’d be there._

He clenches his jaw. _Stop wallowing. There’ll be time enough for that._ For now, he needs all his strength, all his focus, if he’s going to get through this. Thinking of Corvo’s desperate eyes searching his own, and that long, impossible moment—it does nothing but distract him. Make him hope for things he couldn’t have even if he _wasn’t_ on his way into the highest-security building in the Empire.

Whatever Gideon thinks of the Outsider after their exchange, he assigned a whole squad to accompany the Outsider to Coldridge. Three in the carriage—one with a music box, intensely irritating in such a close space—and another seven to ride nearby. As they yank the Outsider from the carriage by the manacles, the cloudy night is just starting to spit rain. One Overseer holds him by the upper arm as a few Watch officers leave the guardhouse by the drawbridge to meet them.

The leading officer lifts a brow at the reserved amusement the Outsider’s trying hard to keep fixed on his face. “Lotta security for one guy,” says the officer. He snatches Gideon’s note from one of the Overseers.

“The High Overseer thinks it’s necessary. Should’ve seen him. He’s spooked.”

Someone says coolly, “A little late for processing criminals, isn’t it, Guard Captain?”

Everyone turns, including the Outsider, and—relief floods him so quickly, he nearly gasps on it.

It’s Emily. She’s just stepping off the path that runs the perimeter of Tower grounds, opening an umbrella. Wyman is at her side, and just as calm and cool. _Wyman!_ Corvo mentioned days ago that Wyman was inbound from Morley. The Outsider had been looking forward to meeting them properly. _Later,_ he thinks fiercely.

Despite their noble bearings, Wyman and Emily both look a little—well. Like they were out for a late-night stroll. Strands of Emily’s hair are loose from her pins, and her silk scarf has slipped low on her neck. Wyman’s shirt buttons are off track by one each.

Even so, the Overseers and Watch officers are saluting, stumbling through proper greetings. Emily appears to be ignoring the Outsider, but he understands. There’s an entire contingency of Overseers here, and Emily knows Corvo and the Outsider were probably attempting _something_ to cull the Abbey’s power. If she gives away that she knows the Outsider, it could bring trouble down on everyone. Especially her.

And the Outsider recognizes the look on her face—jaw high and clenched, authority radiating from her eyes. It’s a mask meant to hide her fear. She wore it across Karnaca. He’s wearing a variant of it right now.

“Wasn’t my call,” says the Guard Captain—the lead officer—gesturing at the Overseers with the note. “I’d stay back if I were you, highness. The High Overseer says he’s a dangerous heretic. Full to the brim with Void magic.”

Emily finally looks at the Outsider. Her face remains indifferent, but she’s gripping the umbrella so tightly, he can almost hear her leather gloves creak. “Really.”

The Outsider tries to think of something, _anything_ , he could say to Emily that wouldn’t implicate her, too. _Corvo’s safe._ He wills her to understand him. _Tell him I’m sorry I didn’t meet him like I said I would._

“What are you going to do with him?” Wyman asks.

“Basement level,” says the Guard Captain. “There’s a few open heretics’ cells down there. Gideon’s insisted on a full guard, too.”

Whatever Emily tells Corvo about this meeting, the Outsider refuses to let his fear become part of her report. He smirks at the Guard Captain. “You think there’s any cell that could hold me?”

“Those chains are working well enough, aren’t they,” barks another officer. “Basement will do fine.”

The Outsider’s smirk only grows. “If it helps you to believe that, then by all means.”

“I ought to inform my spymaster,” Emily says, her eyes back on the Outsider’s. “If this man deserves a full guard, perhaps he’s someone we’ve been tracking.”

The Outsider reads her loud and clear; he breathes out sharply, a lungful he hadn’t realized he was holding. The officers are ignoring him, so he looks away and manages a nod, hoping it conveys both _I hear you_ and _Corvo's all right, he's fine._

“A good idea, highness,” says the Guard Captain. “But best wait until daylight hours, when we’ve got our full force on duty to keep you safe."

The Outsider files _that_ information away. 

The officers shove him toward the gatehouse, through the archway. Then across the drawbridge. The chill wind tears at his clothes, raindrops following in freezing pinpricks.

It’s been a moment since he’s had this particular thought, but as he’s drawn inside, as the heavy iron door cranks and clanks on its path shut, as the dusty ORDER SHALL PREVAIL banner comes into view overhead, the Outsider thinks: _Corvo did this. I can do it, too._

The basement level is about the same shade of taupe and concrete as the rest of the prison, but darker, murkier. The stairs are the only way in and out. The landing is a sparsely lit open area for the guards, past which a heavily barred door opens to reveal a thin, stony hallway that ends with the cell block.

There are only three cells—one facing the entryway, the other two facing each other. A single grimy lightbulb hangs in the space between them, barely illuminating anything. The air reeks far less than the Outsider expected, but it’s still and cold. He wishes for his coat.

He wishes for a lot of things.

He supposes he’s fortunate that the guards don’t put him in the stocks. They just shove him into a cell. The _CLANG_ as the bars bang back against the wall makes him jump. To his surprise, the guards want the manacles back. He sticks his hands through the bars, loathing that he’s got to put his back to them. But as the manacles fall, he’s free to rub the ache out of his wrists. The guards are already heading back down the hallway, chatting, ignoring the Outsider completely—the same way they ignore the music box mounted on the wall beside the entryway. _They're fully jaded_ , the Outsider thinks, filing that away, too. _Or the music box is just broken_.

In the quiet the guards leave behind, the Outsider can hear the rats squeaking. Feels one nudge against his boots.

 _Corvo knows where Gideon keeps that notebook of evidence,_ he reminds himself. _He has those blueprints and everything else. Maybe he can do something with them. Maybe it’s only a matter of time before the guards come back to my cell to release me._

But how long is “a matter of time?” He’s got no way to measure it. No clocks, no windows. Just the cold and the damp and the dark, and a heart that won’t stop hammering, because each of those things in combination is starting to piece together a long, _long_ -forgotten memory: the overwhelming fear of being completely alone in a place he’s never seen and hasn’t cared to. Now as he was then, he’s torn between two instincts: to scrabble for a way out, or to tuck himself into a shadowed corner where none of the waiting horrors can find him.

In the Void, it was the Leviathans who finally drew him from his hiding place. But this is—here, he has nothing. He has only himself, and the memory of Corvo’s haunted, automatic “no” the _moment_ the Outsider suggested they visit Forsythe at Coldridge—

“Not very chatty, are you,” someone says, and the Outsider flinches toward the cell across from his.

The man leaning against the opposite cell door is mostly shadow; the dim bulb shows only some of his grimy, pale skin, and his silver mustache and patchy beard. His plain clothes, though soiled, are structured enough to look like they were expensive. Despite his dishevelment, his back is straight. His boots still flash with a little shine, the same way his eyes flash with grim good humor. “Suit yourself.” The crisp lilt of a lifelong aristocrat gilds the edges of his voice. “Just glad to know the brass weren’t here for me.”

“I didn’t see you,” says the Outsider. “Otherwise I would’ve said hello.” He sits hard onto his cell’s scraggly cot. It’s starting to hit him how exhausted he is. He puts his head in his hands, around the back of his neck, his fingertips lingering where Corvo’s did. The cut on his cheek is throbbing.

“I won't take it personally,” says the man. “You're probably still in shock. Void knows I was. But it'll pass. And assuming you aren’t practicing Void magic right in front of them, the guards won’t take long to realize you’re harmless. They’ll back down. I’ve got a dice game going with the morning shift, actually. I’m up. By a lot.”

The Outsider doesn’t plan to be here long enough to get friendly with the guards.

But he didn’t plan to get caught at the Office of the High Overseer, either. It’s like Corvo said. _Plans falling to pieces is the one thing you can always guarantee._

He tries to quit fretting and pay attention. He looks up at the man again. “What'd you do to earn a heretic’s cell?”

The man sighs. “I told a room full of important people they’d better shut down High Overseer Gideon before he tied the whole city to a stake.” He tuts. “Gideon didn’t like that. Took him all of two days to plant a shrine to the Entity in my basement and have his goons haul me in.”

That jogs something in the Outsider’s memory, but he—oh. Wait. He knows _exactly_ who this is. “Was that ‘room full of important people’ the floor of Parliament?”

“Ah, you know me, then,” the man says, delighted. “Yeah, that was it.” He graces the Outsider with a distinctly noble dip of his head. “MP Ernest Forsythe. At your service.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dodges tomatoes] 
> 
> WEEKLY REMINDER THAT THIS FIC HAS A HAPPY ENDING THeY’LL BE FINE THEY'LL BE THRILLED also this is about as sad as it gets, everything’s uphill (downhill? just, not a bummer) from here.
> 
> next time on AWIBA: old man yells at cloud ; at least one of these dorkwads finally absorbs a life lesson ; [danny ocean voice one more time] “and lettie makes five. five oughta do it, don’t you think? you think we need one more? …you think we need one more. all right, we’ll get one more.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyy, this week it’s Oops All Corvo, hope you like watching old men suffer
> 
> and yes ok we got some angst, a liiittle bit of revisiting some trauma, but for real, by the time we get to last third of this chap here it will be Hopeful i swear
> 
> (also holy shit i love you all what EVEN i cannot bELIEVE every single week that you're so good to me, what in fuck, i cant deal with this [hides face in hands forever], thank you ahhh)
> 
> <3

A faint roaring surfaces in Corvo’s ears. It’s the only sound in his rooms apart from raindrops smacking against the windowpanes. His sodden coat feels a hundred pounds heavier than it did just a moment ago. The bottom of his stomach has dropped away, and his lungs are just—empty.

They’re all watching him. Billie and Lettie and Emily and Wyman, their eyes wide with pity and fear. A whole damn tapestry of worry, waiting to see how he’ll fall apart.

But he can’t fall apart yet. He still isn’t sure he heard Emily right.

Corvo manages, “He’s—he what?”

“We saw him,” says Emily, her gloved hands still twisting around her furled umbrella. “Just now. There must’ve been a dozen Overseers, and a music box—they were just taking him through the gate.”

Corvo turns away, toward the window. In his peripheral, he can see the pillow he left on the sofa this morning after the Outsider had climbed, smiling, through this exact window. Thunder rumbles overhead. No one speaks. He digs his nails into his palms. “Did he see you?”

“More than that.” Wyman sounds mortified at being caught in the middle of what seems very much like family drama. “We spoke to him.”

“Tell me he was all right,” says Billie. “Corvo said there were gunshots—”

“He was fine.” Emily says it quickly. “There was—he had a cut on his face, but he was actually—” She sounds impressed. “He was goading his guards. I tried to tell him—not in so many words—that we’d get to work getting him out.”

“Then let’s go,” says Lettie. She came around in the harbor, just as the rain picked up. Her hand is hale and whole once again; Corvo hears the soft _clink_ as she sets aside the empty vial of S&J. “Let’s get him out right now. We can use my Mark—”

“We can’t,” says Emily. “The crown’s never interfered with a Coldridge prisoner before—”

“And Coldridge has never dropped a former god in its heretic cells, either,” adds Billie.

“Wait, _what_.” Emily again. “I didn’t—do they know he’s the Outsider?”

Wyman starts, “They seemed to think he was just a regular heretic—”

“I never meant to tell them,” Lettie says, “but Gideon—”

“ _Gideon knows?_ ”

“If he knows, then who else—”

“What were you even doing there? How did—”

And then there’s a rising cacophony of voices and confusion.

It blurs in Corvo’s ears. He grips the closest bedpost, trying to haul air back into his chest, his eyes on the pattering rain. He’s still soaked through; Lettie and Billie are, too, all of them dripping a new tributary of the Wrenhaven into the thick carpeting. The sky opened up soon as they reached the harbor. They'd just made it back to Corvo's rooms—barely had time to light a lamp—when Emily and Wyman knocked on the door.

They took the Outsider to—

Even now, Corvo can feel himself brushing thoughts of Coldridge aside. It’s become as instinctual as breathing, to redirect his mind to better things the instant he starts to dwell. Lately, those _better things_ include the Outsider.

But he can’t take refuge in pleasant memories when the reason for them is, at this exact moment, probably getting shoved into a heretic’s cell—if they don’t bolt him into an interrogation chair soon as they get him through the gate.

_I was going to tell him._

Corvo closes his eyes, biting hard on the inside of his cheek. _Panic means you aren’t planning_ , Theodanis told him once, back when Corvo was still green and plucky and so convinced that as long as he held a blade, he’d never have anything to lose. _Accept what’s happened. Work the problem._

He takes quick stock. He needs a fresh coat—one that’ll deflect rain instead of absorb it. He’ll need to light the hearth and spend a few minutes working sensation back into his icy hands. A reload of his sleep darts, just in case. His adrenaline’s still high. If he leaves soon, he can scout the perimeter before the one o’clock shift change—assuming that’s still when the shift does change—

“Corvo?”

He flinches so hard he nearly loses his grip on the bedpost; he turns back to Emily to find her eyes still wide and worried. Wyman and Lettie have gone. Billie’s scrubbing a towel over her face, another draped over her shoulders. Her coat’s hanging by the fire that someone started.

Emily puts a hand on Corvo’s arm. “I need you to get out of this wet coat. Then I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”

He shrugs off his coat because it’s easier than protesting. “Where’s Lettie?”

“Wyman is helping her find some dry clothes. And someplace to sleep for the night. Given what happened, it’s probably not safe for her at home.” Emily takes the coat out of his hands and goes to hang it near Billie’s. Then she glances between them both, hands on her hips. “One of you had better start talking.”

Billie’s barely two sentences in when Emily rounds on Corvo, her eyes wide with an incredulity near laughter. “You took the _Outsider_ to the _Office of the High Overseer?”_

Corvo’s just toweling off his own face. “It was his idea.”

“That doesn’t make it—”

“Until they beat it out of Lettie, no one knew who he was.” Exhaustion is starting to seep into his bones, nesting cozily beside the guilt. He drops onto the sofa, towel around his neck. Elbows on his knees. Opposite end of that pillow. “We didn’t know they were bringing her in, much less that we’d get so close to her.”

“You could’ve stopped him—”

“He’s four thousand years old,” Corvo says, and oh, _no_ , his throat goes tight, because damn it, there’s just one more reason it could never work. How could someone like the actual Void-damned _Outsider_ ever—“No,” he rushes on, “I couldn’t have stopped him. And I wouldn’t have. He wanted that evidence. _He’s_ the one who insisted we save Lettie even when we should’ve left. _He’s_ the one who practically ran off so he could distract the Overseers long enough for me to—” he can't finish it.

Billie perches on the trunk at the foot of Corvo’s bed, staring at him. “You didn’t tell me _he_ left _you_. You just said you separated.”

“He told me he’d meet us at that skiff. Didn’t think I’d need to make excuses.”

Emily takes a seat in Corvo's desk chair. Her fingertips press into her temples. “You at least find anything?”

Corvo fetches the documents from the inner pockets of his coat. They’re a little crushed, but they’re dry, at least. He spreads them on the desk in front of Emily. “This is a start. Everything else we need is in a book Gideon keeps on him.”

Emily huffs. “I _knew_ he was just Campbell: the return.” She picks up the blueprint.

Billie skims the vague schedule Corvo nicked. “So Gideon doesn’t want anyone knowing he’s building a stage for a mass execution.”

Corvo’s back on the sofa. “That’s what it looks like.”

“The Abbey sure knows how to pick a winner,” Billie says, tired as Corvo feels.

Emily’s studying a page of the non-disclosure arrangements. “I’m not sure if we can even use these, since they’re stolen. I’d need to take them to an attorney I trust.”

Billie snorts. “You have an attorney you trust?”

“I do, actually.”

Corvo pinches the bridge of his nose. This is well-trod territory. “Wyman isn’t an attorney.”

“No, but they were _going_ to be.” Emily folds her arms. “Before they changed their university track.”

“Wyman was almost a lawyer?” The corners of Billie’s mouth turn down, her eyes considering. “What’d they trade that for?”

Emily winces. “17th-century Tyvian literature.”

“Not a lawyer,” Corvo adds, somehow glad that it gets Emily rolling her eyes the way it always does.

“But no wonder they’re in such high demand in Morley,” says Billie. “If they can make heads or tails of those books, government must be easy. And hey—did you see this?” She holds up the schedule. “The last phase of this is two days from now.” She glances at the clock on the mantle over the fireplace. “Well. Tomorrow, at this point.”

“So soon?” Emily holds out a hand for it, and Billie passes it along.

“It’s too vague to tell what it actually means,” says Corvo. “No idea if they’ll finish building it, or…” Or if they’re going to try it out, he doesn’t say. Damn it—the last time he and the Outsider surveilled the back lot of the Office, he didn’t think construction was so far along. He realizes now that what he saw was the foundation being laid out according to the blueprint—and once the foundation’s set, there wouldn't be much left to do.

Billie sighs. “So what do we do now? Apart from handing these over to a bookworm?”

“I don’t know,” Emily says, her eyes on Corvo. “I want to just march into Coldridge and demand his release, but the crown hasn’t ever taken an interest in any prisoners there. Much less one so high-profile for the Abbey.”

“No,” Corvo says, “I know.” He does.

“Maybe you could go in under the pretense of interrogating him, but…”

He’s never done that with any Coldridge prisoners, either. And anyway…“Even if I did, I couldn’t walk out with him.”

“Right.” Emily rises, the documents in her hands. “I’m going to take these and try to find some next steps. Corvo, put on something dry and get some sleep.” She looks at him again until he meets her eyes. “Don’t go out after him tonight.”

Corvo clenches his jaw. “I’m at least casing the perimeter.”

Emily’s jaw clenches, too. “You can’t. A storm like this—every rooftop in the city is going to tip you right into the street.”

“I’m not taking the roofs.”

“ _You_ taught me not to go out at night if I wasn’t calm.” She’s coming around the desk now. “Look at you—you’re barely holding it together. If you go out there like this, you’re not going to do a damn thing to help him. You need to get your head back on your shoulders first.” Her gaze softens a little. “You know he’d tell you the same.”

He looks away. She’s right. _Damn it._

“Promise me you won’t go back out,” Emily says.

Even as he considers lying, weariness drags at every muscle. “I won’t.”

“In the morning,” says Emily, reaching for his hand, smiling when he takes it, “we’ll get to work on doing everything we can. We _will_ get him out of there.” She squeezes his fingers and lets them go. Then she’s on her way out the door.

It’s down to Corvo and Billie.

“I won’t give you any more shit tonight,” she mutters. “I know you wouldn’t have just left him unless you didn't have a choice.”

“You’re right to be pissed. I could’ve…” There are a dozen things he could’ve done, should’ve done. Most of them end with Lettie still in Abbey custody. Or Corvo in Abbey custody. Almost any way he runs it, one of them takes the fall for the other two.

“ _Are_ you going back out tonight?” Billie asks. “Because if you are, I want in.”

Even if he’d been considering it after Emily’s scolding, he’d deny it now on principle. He won’t have anyone else putting themselves in danger for his sake. “I’m not.”

“Then tell me when you are.” She rises, taking her coat off the hanger by the fire. “I want to help.”

He nods, but can’t make himself it promise aloud.

When she leaves, he feels—he doesn’t know how he feels.

Worn out, yes, but his nerves still thrum with adrenaline. Every time he closes his eyes, he pictures the Outsider staring blankly at the dark, dirty wall that must be part of his cell. Cell Block B was always cold, but at least Corvo got a single slanted beam of sunlight during the day. He can’t imagine how cold the heretic’s cells are, down at the windowless bottom of the prison.

He pictures that, or he pictures the Outsider’s green-gray irises, his eyes wide over his kerchief when Corvo touched him. They were close enough, again, that Corvo could see those pale, barely-there freckles just below the Outsider’s eyes. Corvo's hand flexes, almost of its own accord.

_I was going to tell him._

Yeah. He’s not getting to sleep anytime soon.

But he’s had plenty of nights like this. He came up with a solution long ago.

Corvo picks up his sword and gives it a spin in his palm, where it unfolds, swift and beautiful and deadly as Void magic. He positions himself in the center of the room and lets the familiar weight of the hilt guide him into the starting stance of a complicated blade form.

He works at it until sweat stings his eyes and his mind is marginally clearer. He’s thought of plenty of things he can do once it’s daylight. And he’s thought of something important.

Those six months he spent in Coldridge were unbearable, but at the heart of that despair was knowing for certain that no one was coming for him. No one believed he could be innocent. No one fought for him.

The Outsider _must_ know that Corvo will tear Coldridge down to its foundations if it means getting him out. The Outsider has to know he’s got friends who would do anything for him. Who love him.

On his way into bed, Corvo snatches the Outsider's pillow off the sofa. He’s too damn tired for dignity, and too damn heartsick to care that it's pathetic. He settles in, then tucks his nose into what's left of that light, clean scent, shot through with something he can’t name but _knows_ is wholly the Outsider’s. He closes his eyes.

_I was going to tell him._

_And by the Void, I still will._

***

He measures the next day by the notes he sends to and receives from his contacts. All the while, he glances over his shoulder, convinced that Gideon may have guessed who was beneath Corvo’s mask. Or that Gideon will show up on the Tower grounds to demand the crown’s aid in hunting down the Office's escaped intruder. 

But the Abbey stays quiet. According to one of Corvo’s contacts, construction in the back lot is nearly finished, and continuing, so Gideon hasn’t noticed the missing documents—or doesn’t care.

Nothing can explain the lack of hubbub about the Outsider’s return. Gideon should’ve been shouting it from the Clocktower by now. Even if he told only his Overseers, surely _one_ of them would break ranks and spill the story. News like that would be impossible to keep secret. And it’d have the city afire with gossip by noon. But still, there’s nothing.

In the late afternoon, Corvo gets word from a contact about the Parliamentary record request he sent off first thing: _Forsythe’s speech & supporters are missing from Parliament proceedings. May have been tampered with—every other session is there. Still searching._

By sundown, he’s growing anxious. He locks himself in his room so he can collect himself. Figure out what to try next, because _work the problem_ only works when there’s things he can _do_. While he thinks, he stokes the fire up and starts burning his notes from the failed mission.

Every logical way into Coldridge seems like it’ll take weeks, if not longer. Corvo doesn't want to leave the Outsider there another night. The things they did to Corvo in _his_ first twenty-four hours—he can’t let the Outsider go through that. He won’t. And yet, figuring out how to break into Coldridge—who in their right mind tries to break into a prison? Even that would take weeks, if he wants to be as thorough as they were with the Office of the High Overseer.

If he could just blink himself across the drawbridge, if he could stop time with a twitch of his fingers, it would be simple. A matter of moments. When he was Marked, jobs never took long to prepare for because each of his abilities let him react to things on the fly.

Damn it, if he could have that power again, even for a _moment_ —

Wait.

Wait, he—maybe he can. Maybe—

Corvo rises from the fire and takes a long, slow breath, burying his pride beneath practicality. He clenches his hands and plants them on the desk, leans on them. His pulse beats around his knuckles. “Daud,” he says into the silence, “where are you.”

The quiet presses in around him.

“ _Daud_ ,” he tries again, hating the way his voice cracks, “come on—”

A cloud of black glass twists in the air, and Daud steps into it, just on the other side of the desk. His arms are folded, his posture relaxed. No cigar this time. “I told you, Corvo,” he says, almost pitying. “My Mark was a one-time offer.”

That _can’t_ be it. His knuckles crack against the desk. “How am I supposed to save him without it?”

“Try a sewer key and a note.”

Corvo ducks his head, winded. It’s beyond a low blow. It’s—it’s subterranean. Somehow he growls, “That supposed to be funny?”

“Look, I understand. I do. But I’m a man of my word. I told you I wouldn’t offer my Mark again, and I won’t. It isn’t my fault you didn’t think you’d need it.”

“Daud.” Corvo’s hands clench and unclench. “Please.”

“I’ve given you my answer.”

“I—damn it.” His voice is rising; he yanks it back down. “Listen to me. I—I will—”

“What?” Daud sounds almost bored. The sharp Void fragments glint as they circle him. “Do anything?”

Corvo tries to take a breath that doesn’t shake. He ducks his head again, shuts his eyes. He grits through his teeth, “Please.”

“You told me you don’t beg.”

The noise that tears out of Corvo’s throat is so much like a sob that he turns away, furious, mortified.

Well.

Fine.

It’s fine.

He was always going to do this. Now he’s just going to do this or die trying.

Daud sighs. “Corvo—”

“Fuck off, Daud.”

 _That’s_ a request Daud honors.

The bastard hasn’t been gone for ten seconds when there’s a soft knock at Corvo’s door.

Billie’s on the other side of it.

Corvo runs a hand down his face. “Did Daud send you?”

She frowns. “Daud was here?”

It's genuine enough. His soundproofing bonecharms must still work. “Just left.”

“You gonna let me in?”

Corvo stands aside and shuts the door behind her. He doesn’t have the energy to give a damn about the staff giving a damn.

Billie leans her hips back against his desk, hands braced on the edge. “What’d he want?”

“He—” Corvo grimaces. “Damned if I know.”

“Sounds about right.” She looks him over. “So what’s your plan?”

Corvo stares at her.

“To bust the Outsider out of Coldridge,” she clarifies. “I know you have one by now.”

He breathes out long and slow. He sits heavily on the sofa. “I’m going after him. Tonight.”

“Great. What’s my role in it?”

“I’m going alone.”

She scoffs. “Like Void you are.”

“I won’t have anyone else taking the fall when things go wrong. If something happens, it’s on me—”

“No, hey—cut that martyr bullshit. You aren’t the only one who cares about him.”

“I know that.” But for some reason, it makes his face heat.

“Whatever you’re planning—you’ve got a Tower full of friends who want to help. _Let us help._ ” Billie looks away, shaking her head. “I told you not to let the Outsider face his humanity by himself, but shit. I’m starting to realize where he learned to go it alone in the first place.”

Corvo tries not to bristle. That can’t be—that isn’t—

“So maybe you needed to hear it, too.” Her gaze comes back to his, holding it. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

 _Yes, I do_. “If something happens to you—”

“You aren’t responsible for my actions any more than you’re responsible for the Outsider choosing to run off and distract those Overseers. It was his mission.”

He blows out a frustrated breath. “I—yeah. But—”

“Get it through your head, Royal Protector. People are responsible for their own choices whether you’re involved or not.”

“If I hadn’t encouraged him—”

“You think that stubborn little shit wouldn’t have found a way to do it on his own?”

Maybe she’s right about that.

“Get it yet?” asks Billie. “If we help you, it’s our choice. Even if you call the shots. Whether we regret it or not. We’re not doing it for you. We’re doing it for ourselves, because we all give a damn about the Outsider.”

 _Damn it._ He doesn’t want to put anyone else’s life at risk, but…fuck. His record of trying to save the people he loves, by himself—if the Outsider’s fighting ring had a leaderboard for that, Corvo would be at the bottom. If he made the rankings at all.

And he’s _been_ there. For years. Decades.

If his friends and the Outsider’s are willing to risk everything…if it’s their choice, made for themselves…

Maybe—maybe it’s time to try something else.

Billie’s arms are crossed, her brows high and expectant. Corvo swallows hard, says, “I still want to go after him tonight. _He_ may last another few days in there, but I don’t think I will.”

“Then we’ll help you.” She says it so easily. Like it’s nothing. “All of us. If you got a plan, then tell us what you want us to do. If not, let’s come up with one together.”

He’s starting to realize there’s a Void of a lot more he could do with more than just one person. He nods. “I’m going to find Emily and Wyman. Could you track down Lettie? Let’s get everyone up to the terrace.” It’ll be less odd than five people in his room. Again. And the terrace is bonecharmed against eavesdroppers, too. “I have some ideas.”

***

“Lord Corvo?”

He turns from Emily and Wyman as one of the staff approaches—Basil, an old Serkonan gent with twenty years on Corvo, one of the Tower valets who manages the public entry hall. He’s been around since Euhorn and refuses to retire, come plague or coup. The man is holding a small, crumpled envelope in his hands. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Basil says, “but a young man’s just arrived. He’s asking to see you.”

For one wild moment, Corvo thinks, _Did he escape already?_

“Usually we send people away unless it’s a hearing day, but this one—I know the lad. His father worked here long ago. Yancey Greendale. I don’t know if you remember. He was our late Emperor Kaldwin’s—”

“Sommelier,” says Corvo, startled. He hasn’t thought about Yancey Greendale in years. “I remember.” Yancey’s son always challenged Corvo to broom-handle duels in the kitchen garden. What was that kid’s name—Tom? Tad?

It hits him: _Tev_.

The Outsider’s friend. Business partner.

If Tev is here, asking for Corvo—he must have known who Corvo was at the ring the other night. That bonecharm wouldn’t have worked on Tev; Corvo’s known him longer than five years. Practically watched the kid grow up, until the plague. And then everything else. Tev never said a word at the ring. Never called Corvo out to his friends. Not name-wise, anyway. “ _Tev?_ Tev’s here?”

“Yes—yes, that’s right. Should I send him up? He’s rather frantic.”

“Please.”

“Oh, and—” Basil holds out the creased envelope. “This came for you just a moment before Tev arrived.”

“Thank you.” Corvo takes it, flipping it over to see which contact is reporting in. _Please be good news_.

Usually, there’s a coded signature, a contact’s personal mark. This mark is coded, yes. But instead of a signature, it says:

_From the world’s last speaker of Old Pandyssian._

His heart makes a valiant effort to jump directly out of his chest.

He looks up. Basil is already halfway down the hall, so Corvo calls, “Who delivered this?”

Basil names one of Corvo’s regular contacts, one who usually delivers the post from various drop points. _How did this note get to them? How did—_ later. He’ll sort it out later.

Despite the creases, the note within is perfectly legible. The rest is in code, too. It’s five names. Four members of Parliament, and one of the highest-ranking officers of the Watch. The kind old enough to be close to retirement. Lots of guilt and nothing to lose.

Beneath it, also in code:

_Courtesy of MP Forsythe. He says they’ll help if you mention him._

_I’m all right. I’m just sorr_

It cuts off there. Mid-word.

He flips it over. There’s nothing else. How— _how?_ He reads the names again, memorizing. He knows now what task he can assign to Emily.

“Lord Corvo!”

It’s Tev, coming up the hall, leaving Basil behind. “Tev,” Corvo says, thanking Basil with a wave. “Are you—”

“Nameless never showed up this morning,” Tev says in a rush, and damn, but Corvo is glad someone’s as panicky about all this as him. “Isn’t answering his door, either. It’s completely unlike him, he’s never—I wasn’t going to bother you about it, but I know the Overseers’ve been after him, so I hoped maybe he was with you.”

“He’s not,” says Corvo, drawing him onto the terrace. Tev spares a glance for the impressive bar cart, but barely notices everyone else—Emily, Wyman, Billie, and Lettie, now standing around the four-seater and flipping through Corvo’s blue volume of public buildings.

“Shite,” says Tev, hand against his forehead, “so he’s—oh. You don’t seem all that surprised.”

“We know where he is. He’s—” Saying still douses Corvo in cold dread. “He’s at Coldridge.”

Tev’s jaw hangs. “He’s _what?_ ”

“The Overseers brought him in. But I was just gathering people who want to help get him out.” Corvo gestures to the crowd behind him, and Tev’s eyes become enormous as he takes them in. Corvo says, “Would you—do you want to join us?”

“I mean.” Tev’s still dazed. “Yeah, of course, but I don’t know if the likes of them—”

Corvo tries to smile. “They’re friends with the—with Nameless, too. There isn’t any ‘likes of them.’” He hesitates, silently and quickly debating whether he should reveal what he intends to. This isn’t his secret to share, but he needs Tev to understand exactly what he’s walking into. “There’s something you should know first." He braces himself. "Would it mean anything to you if I told you that Nameless is actually the Outsider?”

Tev squints. “Outside of what, then.”

A strange sort of hope blossoms in Corvo. If Tev doesn’t know just by hearing it—but then why did Gideon and those Overseers remember when Lettie told them? What was the difference?

He turns for the others and nods Tev along. Tev follows, then goes still as Emily comes to meet them, her smile curious. “Oh, bless me sideways,” Tev mutters. “The Empress herself.”

Emily, meanwhile, tilts her head, her eyes narrowing. Before Corvo can introduce them, she says, “You look—do I know you?”

“You might,” says Tev, hand on the back of his neck now. “I was only a few years older than you when my dad worked the kitchens.”

“Wait.” Emily’s eyes widen. “ _Tev!_ Tev, of _course_ I know you!” She actually moves to embrace him, and Tev, wide-eyed, tentatively returns the gesture. “It’s been _years!”_ Emily pulls back, looking him over as she takes his hands. “Why are you—how do you—?”

“He’s here for the Outsider,” says Corvo. “They’re business partners. The tavern—that’s Tev.” Emily looks at Tev in even greater surprise, but Corvo adds, “I need you to show him your Mark.”

Emily falters, her eyes darting up to Corvo’s. “Wh—”

“The Outsider trusts him. We can, too. Indulge me—I’m testing a theory.”

Exasperated, Emily peels down the back of her glove. Tev looks, but remains clearly, uncomfortably confused.

“Emily,” says Corvo, “can you tell him Nameless is the Outsider?”

Emily glances at Corvo like she thinks he's well and truly lost his head, but with her Mark still visible, she says to Tev, “Nameless is the Outsider.”

Tev goes rigid, his eyes widening. He looks between Emily and Corvo, finds them distinctly not fucking around, then turns away, reeling. “No,” he says, “come on, you’re— _he’s_ — _Nameless_ is the—that's—shite.” He comes back wide-eyed. “And you lot all know? Why doesn’t anyone else?”

“Guess you gotta hear it from one of his Marked to remember,” Billie says, now at Emily’s side.

Tev’s contemplating the middle-distance again. “Bullocks and—fuck me, no wonder he hasn’t got a name. And I didn't even—how did I _forget?_ ”

“You said his name is what unlocked him in the Ritual Hold, right,” Corvo says to Billie. _So maybe Gideon and those two Overseers are the only ones who know._ “Maybe it works the same way to unlock our memories—however Daud locked them up to begin with.”

“Outsider’s hairy arse.” Tev’s still bewildered. “The Abbey. They know, don’t they? That’s why the Overseers nabbed him? Why can’t he just—magic himself out of there?”

As Wyman and Lettie join in to catch Tev up, Corvo feels an odd disappointment welling in his chest. He looks down at the note in his hands again. The only reason he remembers the Outsider is because he saw Emily’s Mark, and she happened to speak of him? Would Corvo have just…forgotten, otherwise? Everything they were to each other?

_And what were you to each other, exactly?_

“Tev,” he says, “do you still want to help us get him out? We’re moving on the place tonight.”

Tev rubs at his temples. “Yeah,” he says. “Course I do. Let me guess—his own thick-headedness got him in there.”

Billie smirks. “So he _does_ know him.”

“You too, apparently.” Tev manages to smirk back. “So what do we do?”

Corvo glances around at his friends. They’re all here for the Outsider. They all want to help Corvo pull off a rescue operation _tonight_. For the first time in—Void only knows how long—he doesn’t have to turn things around on his own.

He drops the note on the table and pulls the blue volume closer. “Let me walk you through what I have so far.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember that one time i warned you about chekhov’s void mark
> 
> that was fun, we have fun here
> 
> also yeah corvo definitely had an internship under ed-harris-as-gene-kranz at one point
> 
> next time on AWIBA: "surprise, bitch. i bet you thought you'd seen the last of me" ; "let’s see, where were we? oh yes—in the pit of despair" ; the outsider being an entire bamf oh my god i love him so _much_


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooo it's friday! welcome to the weekend!
> 
> here's a heads up, lovelies: if this shit goes the way i plan (EHL OH EHL), the Chapter You’ve Been Waiting For is gonna be chapter 16. once i post chapter 15, i’m gonna take two whole weeks to get chap 16 done. so much has changed since this damn thing started that i want enough time to make it worthy of the giant monster this fic has become. it’s _okay_ now, but i want to be perfect. after that, it’ll likely be one more chap and then an epilogue. 
> 
> **TL;DR:** after ch 15 (oct 16), there will be a two-week hiatus before ch 16 (oct 30).
> 
>  **BIGTIME WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER:**  
>  torture! argh! it's mainly just punching with the THREAT of some pointy things but not actual pointy things. it’s all pretty canon-typical, maybe even tamer (have you SEEN those sword animations, dang). but there is a decent amount of blood and bruising and breaking. also more dwelling on past trauma.
> 
> sorrRYYYY
> 
> (and this is your weekly reminder that i love each and every one of you to bits, to absolute BITS, and i am emotional about it. thank you for all the love you share <3333)

Just after ten o’clock, the group splits.

Corvo restocks his supplies from the trunk beneath his bed—sleep darts, a stun mine, two coils of that wiry rope capped with a sharp, strong hook. Pairs of specially crafted gloves so he can actually climb up or slide down the rope without damaging his hands. He’s got everything he needs. He’s ready.

He opens the window and braces his hands on the sill. A rush of night air floods into the room, crisp and cold, a balm that somehow focuses and steadies him at once. It’s clear tonight, a half-moon and stars glittering on the Wrenhaven and casting the city in cool blue.

The others have their tasks. He has his, and he will not let his fear of that place stand in the way of saving the Outsider. He can do this.

He _has_ to do this.

 _If you don’t,_ he thinks, _they’ll put you in a heretic’s cell, same as the Outsider._ The company, he wouldn’t mind. The rest of it…

One more deep breath. He’s got no time to waste. He puts on his mask and climbs into the night.

He takes the usual path down from his window, one that typically begins his patrol routes. He can’t approach Coldridge directly, so he’ll work his way around to the rooftops of residences that overlook one side of it. A good vantage point will separate him from the prison by the width of a street, and then a long, sharp drop into the wide ravine beside Coldridge. Once he gets the signal, he’ll climb down into the street, then use his grappling hook to lower himself into the ravine, then climb back up the side of Coldridge to the roof. It’s a lot of work. Too much, he fears, but what else can he do?

He did bring an extra set of rope and gloves so the Outsider can use them during the escape, but Void—he has no idea if the Outsider will be in any sort of condition to move at all. Corvo may have to carry him.

At least tonight, unlike the time he carried the Outsider across the rooftops, he’s got his bonecharms to help with that sort of thing.

Billie and Lettie left just before Corvo did. They’ll use the skiff to create a distraction down by the rocks and river beneath the main entrance of Coldridge, theoretically drawing the attention of the guards at the front doors. Tev and Wyman will be busy distracting the guards at the gatehouse just off Tower grounds.

It’ll give Corvo a clear path for all his grappling and climbing. Like the Office of the High Overseer, Coldridge has a maintenance hatch on the roof—according to his tome on Dunwall’s public buildings, anyway. From there, it isn’t far to the wide vents that run through the prison. Including above the interrogation room.

At first, the group plotted Corvo’s route directly to the basement level. But as they worked out everyone else’s assignments, one of Corvo’s contacts with an eye on Coldridge reported in: _Ambrose Gideon and six Overseers just arrived._

If Gideon’s at Coldridge, the Outsider must be in the interrogation room.

Corvo tells himself it’s easier this way. He won’t have as many guards to sneak past or take out. If all goes well, he’ll save the Outsider, _and_ he’ll take Gideon’s notebook. Even if he can’t grab the notebook, everyone is wary about approaching the final date on that phased schedule. At this very moment, Emily is heading into the city with a few advisors to start rallying support from the names on the Outsider’s list. If nothing else, if they collect enough support—get the Watch involved, when they go to that one name on the list—they can stop any demonstration that Gideon may be planning.

 _It’s going to work. It has to work._ Corvo repeats it silently as he climbs onto rooftops and leaps the spaces between them. At last, as he makes his way to the edge of a shallowly slanted roof, a perfect view of Coldridge rises into sight.

Like the rest of Dunwall, this side of the prison looks dark and blue in the moonlight. On the drawbridge side, chilly white lights flood the front entrance. Corvo gets down to a crouch at the edge of the roof, lowering one knee against the shingles to steady himself. _This is just like any other mission_ , he reminds himself. _Focus. Watch. Learn._

He toggles the right-side lenses on his mask, magnifying the front of the building where guards patrol. Four of them, wolfhounds at their heels. A fifth guard walks the perimeter.

Corvo wishes he could hear their conversations the way he can hear the faint echo of the prison’s loudspeaker system, tinny and garbled. Void, he hated those loudspeakers. It was always the same messages on repeat, all hours of the day and night. The noise was its own kind of torture until he learned to stop flinching at the crackling whine of it coming on, started tuning it out.

He can’t quite make out its broadcast from here, but his mind fills in the words anyway—a memory he hadn’t realized he’d kept, a long-buried terror suddenly reaching for him like the clawed darkness of Emily’s shadow-form: _Tomorrow’s execution will be restricted to the personnel assigned to the event—_

“Fuck,” he breathes, ducking his head. His hands are shaking, sweat gathering at the back of his neck, cold as the Void.

He can’t do this.

It’s too much. It’s far too much, and he’s a fool to think he ever could, and now he’s dragged everyone else into it, and— _no._ He shoves thoughts of Coldridge aside and reaches out for better things.

_From the world’s last speaker of Old Pandyssian._

_You don’t need to be modest. That was well done._

_You still have so much on your shoulders. You always have. I wish there was a way I could stop adding to it, and start making it easier on you._

_I refuse to just watch when I can help._

_I was going to say brave._

The memories steady him. _I’m doing this for the Outsider_. And he’d do it a thousand more times if he had to—

The air hums. The Void tears open beside him.

He only just catches himself before he can startle over the gutters and onto the street four stories below. Daud crouches at Corvo’s left, staring out at Coldridge. The glinting fragments of the Void around him are almost imperceptible in the shadowy dark.

Corvo grumbles, “Come to gloat?”

“To commend you, if you can believe it,” Daud says. “I didn’t think you had the stones to pull this off without a Mark. _Or_ that you’d let anyone else lend a hand to the cause. Seems like I was wrong on both counts.”

Corvo closes his eyes and tries not to push Daud off the eaves.

“So here you are.” Daud’s not done monologuing. “Ready to save him with nothing but your wits and your blade. Are you going to spill blood this time?”

“If I have to.”

Daud hums a noise that might be amusement. He glances over at Corvo, one scarred eyebrow lifting. Those black eyes appraising. Daud says, “How long have you been in love with him?”

Shock blares through Corvo’s heart; heat follows, crowding up his jaw to warm his face. He can’t—he doesn’t—hearing someone say it out _loud_ …it makes it real in a way he can barely think about. He ducks his head again, dazed.

There’s a smirk in Daud’s voice. “Why do you think you still know him, even though hardly anyone else does?”

Corvo snaps his head back up, glad the mask hides his wide eyes. “ _You—_?”

“You’re welcome,” says Daud, smug. “He asked not to forget you, but I’m the one who took the extra step and made sure you wouldn’t forget him, either.”

Corvo’s at a total loss. He braces a hand against the shingles, overwhelmed. _Daud’s_ the one who gave him that particular gift?

“Anyway.” Daud sighs. “Listen. We both know what I took from you all those years ago.” His voice is almost— _almost_ —gentle. “I won’t let anyone say I never learn from my mistakes. If you still want my Mark, you can have it on loan. One hour, and not a second more. That work for you?”

He can’t say it fast enough: “Yes.”

The blistering-cold burn starts from the inside of his hand and works its way out, a red-gold glow shining all the way through his palm even as it flares up on the back of his hand. As the light fades, Daud's strange rune becomes crisp, striking black more precise than any tattoo.

Corvo gasps as ice-cold power pours through him. He finds blink, he finds shadows that will leap to his command, he finds—oh, Void, _that’s_ useful. So is that. It’s all more useful than it has any right to be. _This could change everything._

And it feels different. The Outsider’s Mark was a steady warmth, a glittering thrill that flared up bright whenever he used it. Daud’s is sharper, colder. Not entirely unpleasant. A northerly breeze in Harvest heat.

Already the world looks different. Details stream into his perception: the pebbled texture of the shingles beneath his boots. A pack of rats scurrying through the alley behind him. He’s aware of the people in the apartments beneath him, and where exactly they are in the space. He flexes his fingers; the Mark flares up with a rush of cold fire, and Corvo sees the exact, distant place he’d land if he opened his hand.

He looks back at Daud, so relieved he can barely speak. “I—”

“One hour,” says Daud. “Don’t fuck it up, Corvo.” Then he’s gone.

Corvo lets out a long, shaky breath. When he rises, he feels—Void. Like he could take on the entire city, if he needed to.

Like he won’t break down in a full panic the instant he gets inside Coldridge.

Like he can actually save the Outsider.

He doesn’t need to adjust his lenses to see that two guards out front of the prison are moving to the far rail, looking at something down in the river beneath them. They wave for help from the other guards.

It’s time. Corvo clenches his fist, calling blink to his command, and the rune flickers with red-gold flame. He sees the spot he’d land: midair, just short of Coldridge’s roof. He could blink down to street level—marginally closer—and go up that way.

_Or._

He releases the Mark’s power and turns back, crossing to the far side of the roof. Then he faces Coldridge again. He hauls in a deep gulp of air, planting his boots. “You can do this,” he mutters. “Just like you used to.”

He takes off, sprinting across the shingles. Then he’s airborne, the cool breeze whipping at his coat, the distant stars illuminating his running leap into oblivion. He calls red-gold flame from the Mark, and when he opens his fist, the Void snatches him out of the air and hurls him across the ravine toward Coldridge.

*

*

*

Coldridge guards lock the Outsider in the interrogation chair and leave him alone for an hour to admire all the shining, sharp-edged implements they’ve laid out. A brazier stands nearby, flames flickering above the embers. A long iron rod pokes from it, the glowing end nestled in the coals.

At least it’s a few degrees warmer in here.

The Outsider almost wishes it wasn’t all so _predictable_. Does Gideon really think the usual _see-if-you-can-scare-them-into-confessing-before-the-torture_ technique is going to work on the Outsider?

He doesn’t even know what Gideon will try to force him to confess. The man’s already figured out he’s the former Outsider.

Whatever Gideon wants from him, he’s too valuable a prisoner to damage too thoroughly. For now, all he can do is hope that Corvo got his note, and that the people on that list can help. Maybe in conjunction with the evidence Corvo did steal.

If the Outsider gets out of here—no, _when_ he gets out of here—he’s going to look into helping Forsythe, too. The man wasn’t joking when he said he was friendly with some of the guards. He talked one of them into bringing the Outsider a scrap of paper and a pencil, and then talked the guard into delivering it to the drop address the Outsider gave him. The envelope was an unexpected bonus.

The Outsider truly, deeply considered following through on the moniker he gave himself on the envelope. Finish the note with a few tender words in his first language, and promise in regular code—to himself as much as Corvo—that he’d translate the Pandyssian as soon as they were reunited. But before he could even contemplate what he’d say—before he was finished with the main message, actually—the guard was demanding everything back, panicky over more guards coming down the hall. The Outsider had to hand everything through the bars in a hurry.

He got the important things down. That’s what matters.

He hopes it’ll get to Corvo. And he hopes Corvo’s all right. Uncomfortable as the last day has been in his dark, frigid, filthy cell, he can’t stop thinking about how much Corvo must be worrying.

The Outsider knows what Coldridge did to Corvo. He’s seen the scars Corvo bears on his body and in his heart. Those nights he appeared from the Void to visit Corvo, interrupting the Royal Protector’s sword forms—sometimes those exercises were meant to shake off nightmares of this exact place. Or to distract him from the waking ones.

And the Outsider, of all people, knows the loneliness of bearing a trauma no one else can understand.

Thoughts of _he’ll come for me_ war with _he can’t, and I’d never ask him to._

Still. The Outsider holds out a little hope. He has to. Void help him, he _is_ afraid, even if he knows what’s coming.

Not that he’ll let anyone else see that fear. Pain, he won’t have a choice, but fear—that, he can hide.

 _Corvo did this, and so can I,_ he reminds himself, by now a steady mantra. Corvo sat in this same spot years ago. With this same view. Same brazier, same railing with a desk behind it, same cold, harsh light, same _ORDER SHALL PREVAIL_ banner overhead—as though he’d forget the slogan if Coldridge didn’t hang it in every damn room.

He studies it, head tilted back. Beyond the banner, the ceiling is stories and stories up, capped with a barred skylight showing nothing but darkness beyond. His eyes trace the paths of ducts and railings that cross the overhead space between skylight and banner. What was Corvo thinking, the last time he was in this seat? The Outsider wondered the same thing back then, too. He’d long since taken notice of Corvo. Hard not to, with Jessamine’s spirit dogging his every step.

The door creaks open behind him.

A small, pitiful part of him still hopes maybe it’s Corvo, after all. Emily did phrase herself to make it feasible that the Royal Spymaster could stop by Coldridge for an interview. The Outsider has certainly thought about it—Corvo grim-eyed and serious, asking to be left alone with the prisoner. Then freeing the Outsider from the chair and promising him that they were working on a way to get him out. Maybe touching him again, or at least tilting their foreheads close. The Outsider’s not sure he’d keep himself from doing something stupid this time.

But the Outsider can’t recall this generation of royals interfering with a Coldridge prisoner before. The suspicion of their interest, _now_ —especially if Gideon’s trying to paint the Outsider as a deranged heretic, even if people don’t recognize who he used to be—it would be too much.

The door whines shut again, and then Gideon and an entourage of three Overseers file into the room, around the chair, so the Outsider can see them.

The Outsider sighs and forces his expression to a sort of unimpressed neutrality.

Gideon—whalebone-pale in the harsh light overhead—looks the Outsider over. “Evening,” he says. His gloved hands rub together. Slow and deliberate. “Wish I could’ve been here earlier. But I’ve been busy.”

“Really.” The Outsider does his best to sound bored. “Did I cause that much of a stir?”

“Not quite.” Gideon smirks. “I’m finishing up a little project. Right on schedule. We’re setting up for a test run first thing in the morning.”

 _The blueprints._ The Outsider keeps his face blank, but he can feel the blood draining from it. “Is that so.” It’s not a question.

Gideon’s smirk deepens. “No curiosity?”

“About Abbey projects? No. It’s all the same. Plant evidence here, bribe Hatters there.”

“Not this time.” Gideon folds his arms, leaning back against the railing across from the Outsider. The Overseers wait, lined up to the side like good little soldiers. “No. This time, I’m planning on making heresy a thing of the past. Starting tomorrow morning, we’ll have the ability to burn fifteen apostates at a time.”

 _Fifteen! The blueprints only said_ …but he realizes, with a sinking feeling in his chest, that of course one blueprint can yield multiple projects. The foundation he and Corvo saw laid out—it wasn’t for one big execution stage. It was for three smaller ones. Somehow, the Outsider keeps his voice steady. “Surprised you got the magistrates to agree.”

“Oh, I haven’t bothered with them. But the people I’m holding beneath the Abbey—no magistrate in the Isles could find them innocent after the kind of occult items we’ve caught them with.” Gideon’s eyes gleam. “I should thank you. Their desperation to get close to the Void—to _you—_ is what brought them to me in the first place.”

His heart beats faster by the moment. _However many people Gideon plans on burning,_ he thinks, _Corvo has the blueprints and the schedule. He’ll handle it. He’ll take care of it._ It’s that trust that lets him meet Gideon’s eyes and start a smirk of his own. “Please. We both know the Void and I had nothing to do with it.”

Gideon just looks at his Overseers and jerks his head toward the Outsider. “Get us started, will you.”

All three of them turn toward him.

The Outsider’s hands clench. _Here we go._

His millennia observing humanity from the Void, everything he’s learned about torture and torturers and tortur _ee_ s—he knows everything they could possibly do to him. He knows that in another hour, he’ll be back in his cell no matter what he tells them—or doesn’t. He knows exactly how to handle every blow, how to brace himself and then accept the pain when it comes.

None of it prepares him for the inescapable reality of how much it just fucking _hurts_.

He supposes it’s a small mercy that, for all the glittering implements the guards left out, the Overseers don’t use anything but their fists.

When they step back, the Outsider slumps forward. His whole face is throbbing; he’s nearly drooling blood, his lower lip split, one cheekbone broken or so badly bruised he can’t tell the difference. His ribs might be cracked on his right side? He can’t gasp a full breath without a stabbing pain there. His left eye is starting to swell shut. His arms shake from how tightly he’s clenching his fists. He looks up through his wet, clumped lashes, working on steadying his breathing so it doesn’t hurt so badly.

Gideon hasn’t moved, but he’s still wearing a look of total vindication _._ His Overseers are lined up again, waiting for more orders.

The Outsider says—slurs, really—“I believe it’s traditional to start with questions, _then_ administer the beating.”

“I prefer it this way.” Gideon pushes off from the rail and takes a few slow steps closer. He links his hands behind his back. “I loosen you up, and it gets harder for you to lie to me.”

“Do you think so?” The Outsider’s nose is bleeding, too. A warm, slow drip. _Ow._ “If you believe the strictures, then you must know I invented the entire concept of lying. It comes naturally.”

Gideon narrows his eyes, but otherwise ignores the taunt. Instead he says, “How did this happen to you? Your humanity?”

The Outsider sees no reason to lie about that. “I was freed. People found my physical body and undid the ritual that made me.”

“How did you make everyone forget you?”

“ _I_ didn’t. The new god of the Void must have.”

Muscles flex in Gideon’s jaw. “So you confirm that a new god rules the Void. The Entity.”

This is already tiresome. The beating, if excruciating, was pedestrian, and the questions predictable. Gideon’s asking nothing he doesn’t already know. “Yes. Does it matter?”

“ _Yes_ , it matters. If the Void has an emissary, it means the profane is still alive and well—and apparently, tampering with our memories. Corrupting good people. Turning them into heretics.”

“You know.” The Outsider sits up a little to take some pressure off his ribs. “If you really want to track down heretics, there’s a cult operating out of Karnaca that could use your attention.”

Gideon ignores that, too. “Tell me why you broke into my office.”

The Outsider shrugs one shoulder, much as he can. “Took a wrong turn down Margin Street.”

Gideon’s mouth flattens to a thin line. “Think you’re clever, do you.”

“You certainly aren’t. One of us has to liven this up.”

One of the Overseers snorts. Gideon whips toward him, near snarling, and all three Overseers straighten themselves up.

“Why do you _think_ I broke into your office,” the Outsider says, drawing Gideon’s attention back to him. “You’ve been bribing Hatters to attack people in my district. You’re planting bonecharms and other talismans on innocent people. I was looking for evidence to bring you in.”

Gideon looks him over, incredulous. “You think anybody would actually take your word? No one else recognizes you, apart from the banker. And my men.” He glances at the Overseers.

 _Two of these three were with him and Lettie?_ Good to know.

“You’re nobody now,” Gideon continues. “You represent a dirt-poor, no-name district. I have all of Parliament on my side. The Abbey liberated this city from Delilah. My men and I are heroes.”

“ _Your_ men? I believe you mean Yul Khulan’s.”

A patchy-pink shade surfaces in Gideon’s cheeks. “Even if you dredged up any evidence, no one in Dunwall would listen to you.”

“Some people might,” says the Outsider. “Considering how many you’ve arrested by now—think of all their families. Their friends. The wide reach of their circles. Whose word are _they_ going to take? The person attempting to prove their people’s innocence? Or the person who locked them up in the first place?”

Gideon’s mouth flattens further. Muscles tick in his jaw. “Who else have you sullied with your Mark?”

“They’re all dead, except for the banker.” An easy lie.

“Nice try. The man with you last night—you Mark him, too?”

“Hired muscle. I needed a heavy.”

“With a mask like that? No. No, I don’t think so. No grunt could afford that kind of craftsmanship.” Gideon steps closer, reaching into an interior pocket of his crimson jacket. The Outsider gets a tantalizing glimpse of one edge of Gideon’s journal, its dog-eared pages and every protruding note.

“Whoever it was,” says Gideon, “you think they’d recognize this?” He pulls his hand free.

The blue-and-gold burnt handkerchief spills into the light, dangling from Gideon’s fingertips.

The Outsider lets his face twist into mildly surprised confusion, though his heart starts pounding so hard, he can feel every beat in his split lip. And his left eye, almost completely swollen shut. _They know it belongs to Corvo. They know. They know they know they know—_ He says, “What are you doing with my handkerchief?”

Gideon’s eyes flash with disappointment _. He believes me!_ “This _,”_ says Gideon, “came from the floor of your bar the night the place burned.”

“Ah.” The Outsider sniffles blood. “I can see why you asked Parliament for a budget increase. Things must be dire if the Abbey’s so desperate for handkerchiefs, you’ve got to pick them up wherever you can.”

Gideon stares at him in cold fury. Then he turns to one of the Overseers.

Who delivers a swift, solid punch to the Outsider’s gut. _Worth it_ , he thinks, dry heaving, spitting more blood.

“My spies saw a masked man slinking around your bar, too,” Gideon says, louder over the Outsider’s hacking. “His description matched the— _hired muscle_ —you brought along last night.”

“Yeah,” pants the Outsider. “The same hired muscle. A job well done deserves more work, don’t you think?” He leans around Gideon so he can better see the Overseers, ignoring the screaming pain in his ribs. “You understand, I’m sure.”

Gideon tucks the handkerchief away, his mouth tight again. _The tavern crew would clean him out of house and home,_ thinks the Outsider. _He can’t keep a single emotion hidden._

“One of my spies told me you’ve been to the Tower,” says Gideon. “That you’re friendly with the royals. Do they know what you are? What you were?”

That only confirms what the Outsider thinks Gideon’s guessed about the handkerchief. When he’s free, he’s going to tell Corvo that someone close to the Tower is feeding information to the Abbey. “I highly doubt that.”

“Then why were you there?”

“They were asking how I’d helped my district. It was an economic consultation.” The Outsider lifts a brow. “ _They_ asked me with a ’47 brandy. Quality stuff. Still less expensive than ten Hatters and a round of grenades. Less expensive than what it took to get me here, too.” He rattles his wrists against the cuffs, biting back a groan when the split skin chafes. “Remember that next time you need to bring someone in, if your funds are so precarious.”

“Wonder how they’d feel about you protecting them.” Gideon strokes his chin. “Maybe they _do_ know who you were. I bet they keep you around _because_ of it. Are they using you? Your knowledge? Whatever’s left of your power?”

The Outsider lets all his feigned indifference drop. He straightens up as much as he can, muscles spasming against his ribs. He hopes it sounds half as threatening as he means it to: “Four thousand years twisting the magic of the Void to my every whim, and you think _now_ , after a few brief months in this festering city, I’d let anyone— _use me—_ for their own designs _?_ ”

“I think a god stuck in the mud with mortals might try to get close to power. Wherever it comes from.”

He laughs, or does his Void-damned best. At any rate, he pulls a grin he hopes looks as unhinged as it feels. “As if someone like you could ever guess what a god thinks.”

Gideon stares at him. Then he moves to the brazier and stirs the coals around. Bursts of sparks float toward the far-off ceiling, but he doesn’t lift the poker free. Waves of heat brush against the Outsider’s broken face—a soft, agonizing caress. A threat.

 _Corvo did this,_ the Outsider reminds himself frantically. _He survived. And when you see him again, he’ll understand this exact terror._

But still, he refuses to let Gideon see his fear. He sighs. Or tries to. “What are you looking for, Gideon? For the Void to come bleeding out of me? I’m human. I have no connection to it.”

Triumph returns to Gideon’s eyes. “So you admit it. You’re not even close to the god you used to be.”

Void, but Gideon’s so _dull_.

The Outsider wishes he’d looked in on Gideon back when he had the ability. He might actually have some useful information he could use against the man now. He could start changing this conversation. Get it more under his control, and keep it away from the royals.

Although…no, he didn’t look in on Gideon, but he knows of enough men _like_ Gideon. He knows that the moment someone dares question their genius, their uniqueness, they crumple like burned, brittle handkerchiefs. And Gideon proved he’d crumple like the rest the moment he went to that brazier, when the Outsider’s comment about guessing godly intent sent him there.

The Outsider’s lack of information is _exactly_ the ammunition he needs to take control of this line of questioning.

“No,” he says, “you’re right. I’m not the god I used to be. But you wanted to believe it, didn’t you.” He can’t help but smirk even through the protest from his split lip. “You’ve _always_ been desperate to believe that I’d taken note of you. That perhaps I considered you a threat. But you’re exactly like every other soulless, power-hungry stooge I’ve ever had the pleasure of ignoring. If I’d bothered to look in on any facet of your disappointing life, you would have bored me to tears. And you know boredom is the one thing I can’t abide.”

Even as he says it, he realizes it’s not quite true anymore. Since he became human, the Outsider’s few experiences with boredom…they’ve been _delightful_. The quiet of a long, unoccupied afternoon, an evening where no book or plan can hold his attention— _it’s possibility_ , he thinks. _Moments where_ I _get to decide what happens next._ No paths laid out in advance, no finite ends. Just chances and choices. A jaunt down to the bar, or a long walk along the river, or stopping in at any one of a dozen shops he’s come to love.

What he wouldn’t give for one quiet, unoccupied afternoon with Corvo. Daylight hours, instead of climbing in through windows and skirting Overseers from rooftops. Corvo could teach him the Serkonan card games from his youth that the Outsider’s only ever watched and never played. They could explore parts of Dunwall he’s only ever seen from the Void, and not with his human eyes. Or they could head to the coast—the part with the grassy cliffs and sand dunes, not the bit with Kingsparrow Island in sight—just to breathe the sea air, far beyond Dunwall’s general miasma.

Void, as long as he’s hoping for impossible things to fill an afternoon—the Outsider imagines refusing to leave Corvo’s bed, and Corvo refusing right along with him. He’d whisper words in his native tongue into the curve of Corvo’s neck, against the peaks and valleys of his scars, _cor meum tuum est, mi cara,_ and tell Corvo the truth of it this time. Maybe Corvo would want to learn some of it—a new code they could use, just the two of them, and for a time, it could be brought back into the world. Ancient and imperfect, rusty from disuse, but if someone else cared to know it, it could become something truly alive again. Something whole.

He snaps out of it. Gideon’s still looking at him like he’s a pustule; it must have been only a moment since the Outsider paused. So he keeps going.

“You were beneath my contempt,” he says. “You still are. I’ve been ignoring men like you since before those cultists made me what I am. Do you know why? Because you’re predictable. Unsurprising. _Boring.”_ He hurls the words at Gideon like daggers, watching more scarlet patches rise on that pale face.

The Outsider keeps going, fanning the flames as high as he can. “You’re all the same. You endured one perceived slight in your plush, privileged childhood, and you became convinced that the world owes you its favor and admiration to make up for the love you lacked. Maybe your father—” Gideon doesn’t move; the Outsider recalibrates. “—no. Your mother—” Gideon’s mouth draws flat. _Bullseye._ “—never had a moment to spare for you, no matter what you accomplished, no matter how far you followed in her footsteps. So you spent your youth devising greater and greater ways to get her attention until at last, you found a scapegoat for all the ways she failed you: me.”

Gideon’s staring at him in cold-eyed, undisguised loathing.

“High Overseer,” ventures one of the other Overseers, “we should—”

The Outsider forges ahead, knowing it’s going to cost him and not caring in the slightest. “So you dedicated your life to destroying me and snuffing out my influence, howling to anyone who would listen that _oh, poor little Ambrose,_ it’s the Outsider’s fault that your mother found you just as vapid and worthless as I do—”

Gideon takes two swift steps forward and breaks the Outsider’s nose.

The crack of pain lights up his vision, sparks through his skull. More blood pours from his nostrils, dousing his mouth, and the agony of it sets him pulling hard against the cuffs. He thinks his blunt nails might leave permanent crescents in his palms.

Still. Void, it’s too easy. He’s practically laughing. Wheezing, more like, and coughing, too, but he knows his red grin is scaring the life out of Gideon. He sees it in those bulging eyes.

“Like I said.” He half-slurs it, near hissing with blood. “ _Predictable_.”

Something in Gideon snaps. He seizes the poker, dragging it out of the coals in a flurry of sparks—

There’s a sound like a clap of thunder, and every light in the room goes out, plunging the five of them into darkness.

The Outsider watches the molten end of the poker, his heart hammering, still throbbing in his nose and his mouth. _What in the—?_

Gideon hurls the poker back into the brazier, furious at the interruption, and the Outsider can breathe again. “Go find out what happened,” Gideon snaps. “Let’s get some light in here.” One Overseer makes for the door.

It’s just bright enough to see by, thanks to the red glow of the coals and a single, wide shaft of moonlight, beaming down from the barred window high overhead. “We are not done here,” Gideon snaps, pointing at the Outsider. His glove shines with blood. “If you want to make it out of this without a permanent maiming, you’d better—”

A shadow drops into the moonlight like blood into water.

The Outsider thinks, _Have I already gone past pain and into hallucinations?_

But Gideon turns toward the shadow, too—and then staggers back in surprise. He shrieks, “Guards! _GUARDS!”_

The Outsider lets himself look again.

It’s—oh, Void.

The shadow rises and it’s _Corvo_. Moonlight glints off the sharp angles of his mask and down the length of his sword. Against the back of his left fist, gold flame is shivering from a lightning edge, two spiked curves, a crown of spots.

His mask is pointed directly at the Outsider.

Who’s gaping. Absolutely thunderstruck. The shocked, questioning angle of his own brows _hurts_ , but he can't help the expression. 

Corvo is here. Corvo is _here_. Corvo is _inside Coldridge,_ Corvo is _here for him,_ Corvo somehow has Daud’s Mark and now he’s turning to the Overseers, raising his glowing fist—

The Outsider hears a crowd of guards and Overseers hurrying into the room, then the ring of swords from scabbards, the whisper of pistols unholstered. “ _Kill the intruder!_ ” Gideon screams.

And all Void breaks loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> g o d last week, in the next-time-on-AWIBA bit, i nearly added ‘hey, ron’ ‘hey, billy’ to foreshadow the end of this chapter, but then did not want to taint that batman shit with lols. but yeah now that you’re through it, it's exactly that video. complete with voice actor name. RIP Vine.
> 
> next time on AWIBA: gideon gets what he deserves, corvo rolls a nat 20 for restoring the party's HP, and JESUS CHRIST A _LOT_ OF TENDERNESS.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi
> 
> [rubs temples] can you believe I once thought I could finish this in 40k words, I just. GAH—
> 
>  **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:**  
>  more canon-typical violence, some intense hostage-style threatening with pointy things (but no injury from said pointy things), a trauma-related flashback that is more or less identical to the one in chapter 4. in fact, there are a bunnnch of callbacks to chaps 3-5 here. almost like things are coming full circle?? WAT.
> 
> **reminder that the next chapter will come out two weeks from today (oct 30) instead of the usual one-week gap.**
> 
> (and shit, im still overcome by every one of youse guise, how are you even—i’m just so grateful you’re still _here_ , you’re still sticking this out even though it’s turned into this MONSTER of a fic, i just—thank you. i did not expect this. or your continued awesomeness. thank you. one bajillion times.)
> 
> <3

Amid all the confusion and chaos, stifling the frustration of being bolted down when all he wants to do is dive into the brawl, the Outsider watches Corvo fight and thinks, _I was wrong. It wouldn’t have taken him seconds to put me in the dirt at the ring. It would’ve taken_ one _._

Overseers and guards drop and keep on dropping, yet Corvo’s blade only ever deflects other blades. Bullets, twice, when blink isn’t fast enough. With his sword arm choking a guard unconscious, Corvo uses his other arm to jam a sleep dart into the nearest Overseer’s neck, then throws one collapsing Overseer into another. His arms freed, he blinks behind a guard, jams a sleep dart into them, then lifts his glowing hand. Shadows from the corners of the room wrap around another Overseer’s leg and yank him down, taking another with him, then Corvo uses his sword-hand to deck an incoming guard hard enough that the man collapses in the same direction as Corvo’s momentum.

The Outsider is so distracted watching the beautiful, brutal melee that it takes him a moment to realize he’s lost track of Gideon.

 _Coward,_ he thinks, almost disappointed. _Fleeing a fight and letting his men do all the work._ And if Gideon’s gone, so is their chance to get his journal. _I guess I shouldn’t be surpri—_

A gloved hand fists in his hair and pulls him straight up in his seat, and a red-sleeved arm drops into his line of sight. A knife glints in Gideon’s hand before the flat of it pulls up hard under the Outsider’s jaw. Its sharp edge quivers against his throat.

Every single molecule in his body locks up in terror.

“Hired muscle, is he,” Gideon sneers overtop him, then shouts, “ _STOP!_ ”

It’s just as the last guard falls from the grip of Corvo’s shadow-power. Corvo turns to them and startles; the Mark on his hand flares up bright in the darkness.

“Don’t come any closer,” snaps Gideon. His hand is juddering, the knife starting to prickle.

 _No!_ The Outsider’s cracked ribs aren’t letting him gasp enough air, and he’s—he’s helpless; he can’t escape, he can’t even flinch or that blade will open his throat, and—oh, no. No, no, _no_ , not again—

He’s been here before. He’s done this already—and he can see it, he can see—

_A twin-bladed knife against his throat._

_Incense burning his eyes and his lungs, rough ropes cutting into his skin, his hands cold and numbing from lack of circulation. The haunting drone of a chanting crowd, indifferent faces everywhere he looks, their kindness from before meant only to pacify him into trusting compliance._

_He thinks,_ someone’s going to come for me this time _, but no one ever has and no one ever will—_

“ _—sider!_ ”

The shout yanks the Outsider back into the dark of the interrogation room. Corvo is still there, right across from him, four or five strides away and half-illuminated in the beam of moonlight. The eye sockets of his mask point directly at the Outsider. “Keep your eyes on me,” Corvo says, with a little dip of his head. “On me.”

The Outsider focuses on those gleaming lenses, fighting down every screaming instinct to struggle. _Fear,_ he reminds himself, every beat of his heart like cannon fire in his ears. _Don’t let Gideon see your fear._

But before the Outsider can manage something suitably scathing, Gideon says, “Welcome to the party, stranger. Fashionably late. But you’ll have to excuse us. We were right in the middle of something.”

“He’s right,” the Outsider grits. “We’d _just_ learned that if you tell Gideon his mother never cared for him, he crumples like a—”

Gideon shifts the knife against him, spitting, “You shut your fucking _—”_

“Put the knife down,” says Corvo, the Mark glowing up brighter. “Put it down, and we’ll talk.”

_Why isn’t he just pausing time, blinking to us, and cutting Gideon down?_

Perhaps Daud’s Mark hasn’t given him the ability to stop time. And Corvo must not trust blink to be faster than Gideon’s knife. What _can_ that Mark do, besides twisting shadows to his will and blinking him from place to place?

“How about this,” says Gideon, removing his knife from the Outsider’s neck to point it briefly, threateningly, at Corvo. His hand bumps the Outsider’s jaw on its way back. “I keep my knife, and you walk yourself into the hall so the guards out there—”

“Every guard who was _out there_ is in here,” Corvo says, and gestures to the unconscious bodies around him. “There’s no one left to help you.”

Gideon’s silence can only mean he’s gaping.

“I did tell you.” The Outsider lifts his jaw further so Gideon knows it’s a jab meant for him. “A job well done deserves more work.”

“Shut up,” Gideon hisses. “Just—”

Corvo growls, “Put that _knife—”_

“Don’t come any closer!” The flat of the blade pulls up harder beneath the Outsider’s jaw, and Corvo freezes. “Take off that mask,” Gideon adds. “ _Do it!_ ”

This time, the fear is too much to hide. “No,” rasps the Outsider. He can’t even thrash in protest; he strains uselessly against the cuffs, igniting pain in his wrists. If Gideon knows it’s Corvo—“ _Don’t—_ ”

But Corvo’s mask is already in his hand.

As much as the Outsider protested, the absolute relief of seeing Corvo’s face again—it leaves him breathless. _More_ breathless. Corvo’s hair hangs untidily over his forehead. His jaw is clenched, his dark eyes holding the Outsider’s as he lets the mask drop. It hits the concrete floor with a dull, heavy _click._

Gideon, above the Outsider, has gone stock-still. Then he looses a hysterical shout of surprise. It turns into a laugh. “Oh, this is _rich_ —Corvo!” He points at Corvo with his knife and punctuates each of the next five syllables with a jab: “ _Corvo Attano_. Of _course_ it’s you. All those rumors, years ago—you didn’t end the Interregnum on your own after all. You had the Outsider to help you.” Gideon’s knife comes back to the Outsider’s throat. “You _were_ protecting the royals,” Gideon says, aiming his voice at the Outsider’s ear. “Let me guess—you Marked Emily Kaldwin before you fell out of the Void. That’s why she wears those gloves. That’s why she called you to the Tower, that’s how she took down Delilah—”

“I took off my mask,” says Corvo, his voice even. He takes a step forward and drops his sword, too; it hits the floor with a ringing clatter. “I put down my blade. You put down yours, and—”

Gideon laughs again, maniacal. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, look at you—I so much as twitch—” He does; the knife prickles again, and the Outsider’s heart breaks clean in half at the sight of Corvo starting forward. Gideon’s grin is evident in his voice: “I’ve got you on a string, Lord Protector.”

“He’s not part of the Void any longer.” Every word out of Corvo’s mouth is underlined in cold fury. “Whatever you’re looking for—it’s not him. Put down that knife and let him go. You want someone who can give you useful answers? Take me instead.”

“How about I bring in another chair,” says Gideon, “and I can question you both. Ah _, ah—_ not another _step!”_

The Outsider tries to steady himself. Tries to _think_ , as Gideon launches into a rant. This isn’t the first time the odds have been against him. This isn’t—

 _Same thing then as today,_ Corvo told him weeks ago, in that tidy washroom, his hands steady as he stitched the Outsider back together. _You were outnumbered. But turning the game in your favor—that’s something you can learn._

And at the ring. _You've already learned. You know exactly how. You’ve just got to surprise your opponents._

But how can he surprise Gideon? The Outsider is bolted into an interrogation chair, for Void’s sake—he can’t move. There’s a knife against his neck, when Gideon isn’t brandishing it, and…

Wait. Gideon’s _been_ brandishing that knife. Each time, his hand lifts away and raises a bit, putting Gideon’s hand only a few inches away from the Outsider’s mouth. His other hand has loosened considerably in the Outsider’s hair. If Gideon moves the knife away again, the Outsider knows how to surprise him long enough for Corvo to blink closer.

The Outsider re-focuses on Corvo, who’s already looking at him. Quickly the Outsider flicks his eyes between Gideon’s hand and Corvo’s eyes. _Get him swinging that knife again,_ the Outsider thinks, willing Corvo to understand.

“—makes me wonder how deep the corruption goes,” Gideon is snapping. “How many in Dunwall Tower—how many in Parliament? It can’t just be Forsythe and his pack of profane—”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Corvo, looking back up at Gideon with deadly calm. “However many there are—your schemes are coming to an end, Gideon. As we speak, the Empress is out in the city gathering support against you with the things we took from your office. We’re going to stop you burning your prisoners before you get the chance to start. And we’re doing it tonight.”

Gideon’s silence indicates more gaping, but the Outsider is staring, too. How can Corvo just—reveal these things? _Trust him,_ he thinks. _He wouldn’t say any of it without good reason._

“Impossible,” Gideon spits, but it doesn’t sound convinced. “Even if you try to move on us, half the Watch is working with the Abbey. You think you can send them to _my_ enclave and get them to dismantle our—”

“Yes,” says Corvo. “You’re not the only one with branches of the Watch on your side.”

 _My note,_ the Outsider thinks, his eyes (well, _eye_ ; the left is swollen shut by now) widening. _Corvo_ did _get my note. He saw Vice Chief Mulcahey was on it_.

Gideon’s furious, huffing through his teeth. When he speaks, his voice shakes with rage. “Listen to me, you Void-cursed filth—you common-born Serkonan sack of _shit_ —” Gideon points his knife toward Corvo—

The Outsider lunges forward, fast enough that Gideon’s hand slips right out of his hair. With all the strength his bruised and bloodied face can muster, the Outsider sinks his teeth into the stretch of bare arm between Gideon’s glove and sleeve.

It’s enough. Gideon screams and drops the knife—directly into the Outsider’s lap, hilt-first, thank the Void—and then Corvo _blurs_ , yanking the High Overseer away from the interrogation chair. The Outsider can’t twist to see them; it hurts too badly, his side in agony from that lunge, but he hears Gideon choking, and then _not_ choking. And then the muffled _thump_ s of a body hitting the ground.

There’s just enough silence for the Outsider to wonder if it wasn’t Gideon choking after all—but then Corvo hurries back into the Outsider’s line of sight.

The Outsider is gasping in relief, or trying. In a voice that cracks only a little, he manages, “I had everything totally under control.”

“Yeah.” Corvo, just as breathless, hits the chair’s release lever. “Like a runaway carriage.”

The cuffs spring open. Corvo drops to a knee directly in front of the Outsider, hands hovering as if in question, as if he might catch the Outsider if he tips forward.

The Outsider doesn’t tip forward. He tosses Gideon’s fallen knife aside, and then he looks back at Corvo, hungrily absorbing the details. The brown in his eyes. The shadow of a scar across his lower lip. Corvo is here. He’s _here_. The fear he must have had to overpower, Marked or not, the fear he must be fighting _right now_ , in this room, this room that took everything he had and filled that emptiness with more misery, more grief—

Corvo starts to say, “Tell me what h—”

But it’s just as the Outsider begins babbling, a torrent of words he can’t stop: “I’m sorry—Void, Corvo, I’m so sorry I didn’t meet you at that skiff, I promised you I would and I—” His eyes are watering, nothing short of bizarre in the one that’s swollen shut, but the other blurs and then spills over. He’s been keeping his fear buried for what feels like days, and now that Corvo’s here—now that he doesn’t have to hide it—it’s all pouring out of him. “—and I didn’t, they—I _couldn’t_ , and now you’ve had to come here—”

“No,” says Corvo, surprise plain on his face, “what, _no,_ you don’t…” His left hand gently brushes sweaty strands of hair from the Outsider’s forehead, his eyes studying every cut, every break, every bruise. “I know you would’ve shown up if you could.”

The Outsider can’t stop himself; he tilts into Corvo’s touch, and it rasps over two days of stubble. Everything hurts except Corvo’s cool hand against his throbbing head. “You still came here.” He brings a shaking hand up to grip Corvo’s wrist. “To _Coldridge_. You—are you all right?”

Corvo ducks his head, seemingly bewildered. “Am _I_ all right, asks the man they made into a punching bag.” His eyes come back up, wide and searching. “Tell me what hurts most.”

 _This_ , the Outsider thinks. Corvo’s devastation, and the fact that the Outsider thinks that if not for the blood, he might just tip forward and kiss the pain out of Corvo’s expression—but his split lip still throbs. His face is wet with blood, his jaw and neck cool with it, soaking into his collar; he can taste it, coppery and foul and putting him in mind of memories he’s only just dragged himself back from.

“Ribs,” he says, dropping his hand from Corvo’s arm to pinpoint the spot. “And my face, I—I heard my nose break, but I don’t know if this is the same, or…” He touches his cheekbone, the one Corvo isn’t palming, and even the careful pressure is agony.

Corvo’s fingertips alight on the Outsider’s temple with purpose. He murmurs, “I think I have something for that.”

Gold light from the Mark flares up in the Outsider’s peripheral. At once, coolness sinks into the heat of the pounding pain in his cheek and at the bridge of his nose. Then that same coolness flares over his ribs.

Corvo frowns. “This felt like a healing power, but…everything still looks the same.”

If it was a healing power, it would be unlike anything the Outsider has ever seen manifest in any Mark-bearer. He shifts experimentally. Everything still hurts, but the muscles over his ribs have stopped spasming. “I think it _is_ a healing power. Maybe it works slowly.”

“Could be.” Corvo lowers his hand.

The Outsider catches it, pulls it closer so he can study Daud’s Mark up close. It’s crisply black, the edges limned with a burning glow—a sign of its intense use. He traces his thumb over it, following the rise of veins and tendons.

Corvo’s eyes are swimming in guilt. His voice catches. “It’s a temporary loan. I’ve got—maybe twenty minutes left.” His throat constricts with a click the Outsider can hear. “I know what I said, about—about the last time Daud offered, but this time…I wasn’t sure I could get you out if I said no. I didn’t…”

“Oh, my dear Corvo.” The Outsider barely manages it. He lets his thumb brush the Mark once more before looking into the wide, desperate dark of Corvo’s eyes. “I know you don’t belong to him.”

Corvo’s hard exhale, the weary relief that rises in his face—the Outsider can’t stand the distance between them any longer. He may not be able to kiss Corvo with the split in his lip, but he can do the next best thing. He tips forward out of the chair, slips his arms around Corvo’s neck, and _clings._

Corvo pulls him right in, opening his coat so he can tuck the Outsider inside it, dropping his other knee so the whole lengths of them connect from shoulder to thigh, and Void, the _warmth—_ Corvo is _so_ warm, a mercy after how cold the Outsider’s felt the last day, and he breathes in that delicious spice-leather scent, glad he still can through all the blood. Corvo’s arms are tight but careful, wary of the Outsider’s ribs. One of the Outsider’s hands—unintentionally at first, and now entirely, _completely_ intentionally—is threaded into the long, soft hair at the back of Corvo’s head. Corvo’s beard brushes against the stubble at the side of the Outsider’s jaw, and the Outsider shivers at the contact, hoping it's masked by his other shakes. He doesn’t want to let go. He wants to _live_ here, in Corvo’s arms, Corvo’s warmth.

It takes him a moment to realize Corvo’s speaking.

“I’m sorry,” Corvo’s saying, hitching, “fuck, I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner, I wanted—”

“ _What?_ ” The Outsider pulls back to look at him, gripping the lapel of Corvo’s coat—now back against Corvo’s chest—for balance. “I didn’t even…it’s barely been a _day_. And you came _here_.” His eyes are still wet, damn it—but the swelling in the left one is starting to go down. “I think you must be the bravest man I’ve ever known.”

Muscles flare in Corvo’s jaw; he looks away, his own eyes a little watery. “You’re the one taunting the High Overseer when he’s got you at knifepoint.”

“One of these days,” says the Outsider, his heart light enough that it could float from his chest, “I’m going to give you a compliment you don’t deflect.”

Corvo’s gaze comes back, shining. “You can try.”

Void. _Void_. If they don’t start moving, the Outsider really might try to kiss him, blood and split lip be damned. “Twenty minutes left on that Mark,” he says. “Right?”

“Yeah. Give or take.” Corvo’s hand comes up like it might cover the Outsider’s on his coat, but then it drops. “You think you can stand?”

“Yes.” He gets a hand back on the chair and hauls himself up. As the sparks of dizziness fade, he finds he can see out of his left eye. And as he looks around, he takes in the pile of unconscious bodies. “Gideon knows you now. You—you _told him what you’re—_ I’m glad you got my note, but tell me you have a plan to avoid getting hauled back here as soon as he’s conscious.”

“I do.” Corvo is already crouching by the High Overseer. He plucks Gideon’s notebook from that scarlet coat and passes it to the Outsider, who wraps both hands around it. The leather cover is supple with use, its pages faintly crackly with the warp and weft of so much ink.

The Outsider shivers again. They’ve been after the evidence in this notebook for weeks, at this point. And here it is, just—in his hands. Everything they need to bring Gideon down. _No more Overseers terrorizing Dunwall,_ he thinks. _No more forcing Hatters to do their dirty work. Ava can get her mother back._

Gold light catches his eye; he looks up to find Corvo touching the side of Gideon’s head, the Mark flared up bright before it fades. “There,” says Corvo, standing. “He won’t remember who you are when he wakes. Or who I am. Just that a stray heretic escaped custody somehow.”

The Outsider stares at the Mark, folding the book against his chest. His ribs don’t even mind, though the rest of him is getting cold again. “Between that and the healing, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Void grant anyone that kind of power.”

“The time limit must mean it doesn’t mind sharing more.” Corvo walks back toward him now, shrugging off his coat. Before the Outsider can ask what he’s doing, Corvo is draping his coat over the Outsider’s shoulders.

Warmth settles around the Outsider like—well, like a coat. He pushes his arms through the sleeves one at a time, that delicious Corvo-scent filling his nose again as his muscles begin unclenching, trusting that heat will meet them. “Void, you’re warm,” he breathes, unthinking, and instantly his face heats like the rest of him. It _hurts,_ a throbbing over his cheek and in his lip. “Thank you.”

“Least I can do,” Corvo says, which is frankly laughable, considering—but already he’s moving on, toward the pile of guards and Overseers. “I need a moment to use the—the memory power on the rest, and then we can go. I only wish these Overseers could be the two who were with Gideon last night.”

“I have good news, then.” The Outsider nods at the pile. “They’re somewhere in that mess. If I could tell them apart, I'd point them out. But the masks...”

"I'll do it to all of them. Guards, too."

Just as Corvo finishes sinking gold light into the last Overseer he took down, the overhead lights hum back on. They’re sharp and stark; the Outsider squints against the glare. From another cell block deep in the prison, an alarm begins to sound.

“Looks like I’ve finally been made.” Corvo fits the mask back over his face and folds his sword with a spin. It lands back in his weapons belt, where his crossbow hangs, too. _Curious that he didn’t use it._ “Come on,” Corvo adds. “We’ll go out by going up.”

The Outsider looks toward the distant ceiling; it pulls at the blood starting to dry on his face and neck. “How?”

Corvo opens one arm.

“Oh.” The Outsider’s face is still hot, but it hurts a little less, and when he grits his teeth, he’s surprised to find that his cheek isn’t quite so sore. “Right, of course.”

He tucks Gideon’s journal into one of the coat's broad interior pockets, then tucks himself against Corvo’s right side. His arm settles hesitantly around Corvo’s back.

Corvo drapes his arm over the Outsider’s shoulders, pulls his front flush against Corvo’s side. The Outsider’s forehead bumps one cool edge of Corvo’s mask—

Corvo clenches his left fist, says, “Hold on tight.”

And then they’re standing on the broad, heavy pipes that crisscross the room fifteen feet above it. Except—Corvo glances back, then releases the Outsider and turns. “Just one more thing I need to do,” he says. He lifts his glowing hand.

Strands of shadows coalesce from the corners of the room, then from above them where the lights can’t reach. Darkness streams past them to congregate around the interrogation chair. Ropes of shadows twine about it, and the Outsider hears a faint ringing, a metallic sound. Corvo’s hand shakes, the Mark burning bright, his knuckles blanching, and then the chair falls to pieces. The arms, legs, even the cuffs separate, the seat falling away, the headrest crashing atop the pile. Corvo then guides the shadows up to him; the Outsider nearly flinches back in surprise as they approach. But the shadows merely drop a handful of screws and nuts and bolts into Corvo’s outstretched palm. Corvo lets out a relieved, surprised noise. “Can’t believe that worked.”

The Outsider turns back to Corvo, brimming with affection. He wishes he wasn’t so damn blood-covered. He wishes Corvo’s mask was off. “That was a long time coming.”

“Yeah,” Corvo says, “and good fucking riddance. Will you hold onto these? I want to drop them in the river the first chance I get.” The Outsider opens one of the outer pockets of Corvo’s coat, and Corvo drops them in. Then Corvo settles his arm around the Outsider’s shoulders again, pulling him close. “Let’s get out of here and never come back, huh.”

This time, the Outsider rests his forehead against the edge of the mask on purpose. “Lead the way.”

*

*

*

Corvo opens his window as wide as it will go, then drops into his glowing, firelit room and turns back to help the Outsider climb in. Tev and Wyman—on the sofa and at Corvo’s desk—are already leaping to their feet, exclaiming. The Outsider startles back against Corvo’s arm, alarmed until he sees who it is, and relief widens his eyes.

The Outsider’s face looks better. The swelling is almost gone; his nose isn’t quite so off-kilter. He’s still covered in blood (it’s drying down his face and chin and neck, only interrupted where Gideon’s sleeve and knife pressed against it) and he still looks a little dazed, but he’s better. His wrists are scabbing.

“Void fucking help us,” Tev breathes, coming closer. “Look at you—you’re a mess!”

“You actually got him.” Wyman is gaping. “And—Corvo, is that—?”

Corvo follows Wyman’s gaze to the back of his own hand, where Daud’s Mark is still glowing faintly. “Uh,” he says, holding it up, “long story—”

The Mark disappears.

Unlike Delilah’s debilitating magic, Corvo doesn’t feel a thing. Probably wouldn’t have even noticed it disappear if he wasn’t looking right at it. Although...the room does look just a bit dimmer; behind him, out the window, the night is already silent again. His senses are back to normal. Frustrating—annoying—but he’s dealt with it before. He can do it again.

He looks up at the Outsider, who already has eyes on him. “Impeccable timing,” says the Outsider. “I’m still amazed Daud gave it to you at all.”

It echoes in Corvo’s memory: _How long have you been in love with him?_ “Yeah. So am I.”

“Wait,” says Wyman, one hand hovering, “ _Daud_ —”

“Later,” Corvo mutters. “I take it everything went all right at the gatehouse?”

Wyman refocuses with a little shake of their head. “We were able to keep the guards’ attention for nearly twenty minutes,” they report. “Started as soon as Billie and Lettie got the skiff stuck on those rocks. They should be back soon, too.”

“Well done.” Corvo pulls the journal out of his coat and hands it to Wyman, who gapes at it, too. “It was enough time. You should sit,” Corvo adds to the Outsider, who nods in weary agreement and beelines for the sofa.

“Gideon’s journal.” Wyman has already begun flipping through the pages. “You grabbed it.”

“We did.” Corvo can’t take his eyes off the Outsider, who sits heavily onto the sofa and leans back, eyes briefly closing. Corvo’s heart twists in his chest. “Heard from Emily?” He heads for the cabinet with his kits of supplies.

“Just a few minutes ago.” Wyman looks up from the notebook. “Sent a courier. She’s got Susuma and Norrington. She’s on her way to the Watch next for Vice Chief Mulcahey. Corvo—I’m barely two pages in and this is—Void, it’s damning.”

“Oi, Royal Protector.” Tev’s heading for the washroom. “How married are you to the pristine-ity of your bath linens?”

“I’m not,” says Corvo. He hands a vial of S&J to the Outsider. The Mark may have started healing him, but maybe this will help speed it along. “Wyman, how damning are we talking?”

“He’s implicated High Overseers in Morley and Serkonos.” Wyman’s nearly laughing in disbelief as they turn another page. “They’re all doing the same—ha!” They lift a note free of the pages. “They’re _literally trading tips_ on how to plant evidence, Outsider’s _ey_ —” Their jaw snaps shut, their own eyes flickering to the sofa. “Uh.”

The Outsider is smiling, if tiredly. He’s already drained the S&J. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees ( _Ribs must be better,_ Corvo thinks). Corvo’s coat is dark and heavy on the Outsider's shoulders—only a little large. “Wyman, I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”

“It’s an honor,” says Wyman, flipping the journal shut, coming closer to extend a hand. “Emily told me all about what you did for her in Karnaca. Terrific.”

The Outsider shakes Wyman’s hand, and Corvo’s relieved to see his grip looks solid. “The honor’s mine,” says the Outsider. “Glad to see all that old Tyvian literature hasn’t turned you entirely against me.”

Wyman laughs, a thin noise of incredulity—but they recover quickly. “I always hated the morality plays most. The pious may have the moral high ground, but heretics write better stories.”

Corvo barely hears them; he’s gawking at the Outsider. “You know about Wyman's studies?”

“They’re in love with your daughter,” the Outsider says. “I may have, ah. Looked in on them, when the two of them first—to see if they were worthy.” He looks mortified. “I regret it now, of course, but at the time, I was...somewhat short on empathy. It seemed like a grand idea.”

Wyman blinks at him. “And? Did you find me worthy?”

The Outsider’s expression goes soft. “You’ll do just fine.”

“ _Finally_ ,” says Tev, coming back with a flurry of dry and dampened white hand-towels. “It takes ages for the hot water in there. This is a _palace_ , they should really have that sorted—here. Should I sponge the blood off your pretty face, or will you let your seamstress do it?”

The Outsider accepts a towel, holding Tev off with a raised hand. “Void, don’t make me laugh. It still hurts.”

“Seamstress?” Wyman asks, looking up from the open notebook again.

Tev gestures at Corvo, whose face is fast heating. “His stitches are neat as a pin. Sewed up Nameless when—” And he catches himself.

The Outsider emerges from behind the towel, his eyes uncertain—but clearer, now that the blood’s off his brow and temples. “I wondered if you knew. Or—remembered, since you're here.”

“Had to go through about ten different hoops for that, but yeah.” Tev smiles.

“I figured he should know if he was going to help,” Corvo says, wincing. “I know it wasn’t my information to share, but—”

“I think that was the right call.” The Outsider says it gently. “And Tev, I…”

“Don’t sweat it, mate. Piss under the bridge.”

“Not how the saying goes,” Wyman mutters.

“Cut me a break, bookworm. I’m allowed creative license. And Namele— _Outsider—_ I forgive you, but I'll still need you to explain why you’re bandying about financing my dream of tavern ownership and getting your arse kicked in fighting rings when you’re _you_.”

The Outsider smiles back at Tev. To Corvo’s relief, the split in his lower lip doesn’t look as deep as it did back at Coldridge. “I’ll tell you the whole story.”

Tev nods, satisfied. He turns to Corvo. “So what now?”

“Like we talked about.” Corvo, realizing he’s been staring, snatches a tumbler off the tray on the sideboard where he keeps his whiskey. He fills it at the sink in the washroom, calling over his shoulder, “We got the journal. We need to intercept Emily so she can call an emergency session of Parliament.”

“The sooner the better,” says the Outsider. “I didn’t even get to mention—Gideon’s heretic stage. He said he plans on trying it out in the morning. And it isn’t five heretics at a time. It’s fifteen.”

Wyman and Tev both drop their jaws, but Corvo can’t bring himself to be surprised. “Three different platforms?”

“That’s the impression I got.”

“Then we should hurry.” Corvo hands the glass of water to the Outsider, who trades the empty vial of S&J for it, his tired eyes grateful. Corvo hates the idea of leaving him, but he can’t abandon Emily to the viper’s nest of Parliament. Some of her advisors can handle a sword, but they aren’t Corvo. He finds another coat in the wardrobe. “If we meet Emily while she’s with the Watch, we can get Mulcahey to send a squad to the Office and cut off any attempt to start the execution early. Which they might, when Gideon realizes his journal is missing.”

“Right,” says Wyman, handing the notebook back to Corvo. “Then let’s go.”

Corvo tucks it into his coat. “Wyman, if you could go on ahead and call a carriage?”

“On it.” Wyman heads for the door.

“I’ll be right down,” Corvo adds, then turns to the Outsider. “I’d rather not leave you.” It comes out far more desperately than he means. His face heats again, and he can feel the weight of Tev’s eyes on him. “But I—”

“I understand,” says the Outsider, the blood mostly cleared from his face by now. “You’ve important work to do yet tonight. I’m so tired I might just keel over right here.”

“Maybe Lord Corvo can find you a physician before he goes,” says Tev. “For that poor broken face of yours.”

“It looked far more broken just twenty minutes ago,” Corvo points out. “I think you’re right, Outsider. The healing is slow-going, but it’s going. Though—I can still find someone to check on you, if you’d rather.”

“No, I’ll forego the physician.” The Outsider brushes careful fingers along his cheekbone. “Feeling better every minute, actually.”

“Oh, is that so.” Tevs folds his arms. “Because you still look like shite.”

The Outsider’s fighting a bigger smile. “I’ve barely slept in the last—what, two days? Yeah, I look like shite.”

“Probably starving, too,” says Tev. “Did they feed and water you?”

The Outsider grimaces. “Not much.”

“I’ll steal down to the kitchens, then. Once Billie and the others are here.” Tev glances at Corvo, a brow up. “I’m assuming you don’t need me for Parliament.”

“If you could stay with him,” says Corvo, starting to turn for the door, “I'd feel much better.”

“Thank the Void,” mutters Tev.

“Corvo, you don’t—” the Outsider starts, and falters. He’s fidgeting with the bloodied towels in his hands, water set aside. “You wouldn’t rather I stay in the guest quarters?”

“I don't mind you here.” Corvo can barely look him in the eye. “Fire’s already going, anyway. I’ll probably be a few hours, at least, so—make yourselves at home, both of you. Whatever you need. Outsider, you know where to find clean clothes. And if you can sleep—” His face. _Will not._ Cool down. “—the bed’s all yours.” He tries to smile as if he regularly makes the same offers to anyone, willy-nilly. As if it’s nothing special. “I’d say this qualifies as cracking your head open.”

The Outsider is staring at him, hands gone still. “You’ve already done so much for me. This is…”

 _How long have you been in love with him?_ “Nothing,” Corvo insists. “It’s nothing.”

Except Outsider’s grateful gaze tells him it’s very much not nothing.

“Weren’t you leaving?” Tev asks Corvo, cheery.

“Right. Yes.” Corvo tugs his coat shut, buttoning it. He looks back at the Outsider. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.” The Outsider pulls a little smile. “Go on. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Corvo is backing away. He wants to say something ridiculous, like _can you promise that_ , but Tev saves him the trouble: “I’ll kick his arse if he tries to leave, don’t worry.”

“Like you could,” the Outsider grumbles.

“Please. Twenty-four hours in Coldridge custody—even old Amos could knock you over with a bar rag. And he’s got no depth perception.”

The Outsider rolls his eyes, but it’s warm, fond, and just as Corvo gets his hand on the door, that green gaze comes back to him. Somehow the look is just…rich with familiarity. With a comfort that Corvo doesn’t deserve. Gratitude, and something softer, something—

Corvo smiles back, his face heating. He ducks out the door and hurries to meet Wyman.

***

They spend a frantic few hours dashing to and fro across a darkened Dunwall before finally, allies rallied, the Watch dispersed, they head for Parliament. The emergency session is just getting underway.

Corvo and Wyman watch from nearby as Emily reads aloud some of the more damning sections of the journal to a raucous crowd of MPs, implicating High Overseers across the Isles, revealing concentrated efforts to terrorize the people of the Empire into compliance. Not every Abbey supporter is appalled, but enough are.

By breakfast, the Abbey of the Everyman is dissolved across the Empire.

The resolution to dismantle it passes with a majority vote—including one from a bedraggled but exhuberant Ernest Forsythe, who arrives just in time to add his name. Soon as the resolution passes, the MPs who voted it through begin forming an independent council that will refashion the Abbey enclaves into havens for stricture-loving citizens. They’ll find faith leaders from among the people whose jobs won’t be to hunt down heretics, but to share the teachings of the strictures.

The news spreads. Gideon and others are arrested. The prison beneath the Office of the High Overseer is emptied. Forsythe is issued a public pardon and apology. A delegation with Gideon’s journal is sent to the _Dunwall Courier_ , which begins printing the more scathing parts of the journal—names of ordinary Dunwall citizens redacted, of course—as part of a special supplement they’ll run later that day.

Corvo, Emily, and Wyman return to the Tower just before noon, but there’s no time to rest. Emily’s expecting a constant stream of MPs and other officials who will want their opinions heard about the next steps after the Abbey. Her schedule is cleared for the next few days to accommodate everyone who needs accommodating.

Almost as soon as the group gets inside the public entrance, Wyman turns to Corvo. “Go on,” they say. “I know you want to check on him. I can Royal Protect Emily for awhile.”

Corvo hates that he’s that damn obvious, but he’s grateful for the excuse. He glances at his daughter. “Em?”

“Go,” she says, smiling in a way that could be teasing if Corvo wasn’t choosing to ignore it. “Right now, I feel like I could take down an army of Delilahs if I had to. I’ll be fine.” She takes Corvo’s hand and kisses his cheek. “You’ve done so much. This is your victory as well as mine. Let’s celebrate the first chance we get.”

That sounds good. Beyond good. “Count me in.”

Up in the living quarters, Corvo knocks gently on his own door before nudging it open. When he gets a look inside, his heart surges, pleased. The Outsider is asleep in Corvo’s bed, facing the sofa that Tev is rising from.

Tev joins him in the hall so they can confer. “We only just passed out three or four hours ago,” Tev says, stifling a yawn. “Billie and Lettie showed up not long after you left. We were all peckish, our friend included. Once I got him to rinse all the jail off and change into something—you know, not covered in blood—he found his second wind all right. Would’ve thought he didn’t _want_ to sleep, the way we were all going on into the night.”

Oh, Void. Another unwelcome tide of memories breaks over Corvo, more moments he hadn’t realized he’d kept. In Coldridge, in the months after it, sleep was hardly ever restful. Shutting his eyes usually meant dreaming, which meant revisiting everything that tormented him during his waking hours—sometimes in horrifying, creative new detail. Getting pulled into the Void that first night at the Hound Pits was a relief, comparatively speaking. Corvo still does dream about it, but never so frequently as before. The Outsider, so close to everything he’s experienced—he must fear what’s waiting for him on the other side of his eyelids. Corvo certainly did.

“Well,” says Corvo, finding his voice at last. “Seems like he’s getting enough rest now.”

“Yeah. For sure. What happened with Parliament?”

Corvo quickly catches him up.

Tev shakes his head. “Absolutely brilliant. I know a lot of people in our district who’ll be glad to have their loved ones back, no mistake.”

“I hope so. Do you need to go back to your bar?”

“Nah, I left one of our own in charge to handle the contractors. I can stick around awhile yet, if you like. But if you’ll be here with him—” Tev nods back at the closed door. “—I’d love someplace to crash that isn’t that bloody sofa. _Not_ made for sleeping, is it.”

Corvo finds one of the staff who can set Tev up with a guest room near Billie’s and Lettie’s. At this point, he has no idea what the people who run the Tower think about his and Emily’s stream of guests and the odd hours they’ve kept the last few days. He’s almost too tired to care.

With Tev squared away, Corvo is finally free to return to his rooms.

It’s quiet when he steps inside. The fire is burning low, crackling a little. Midday sunlight beams through the windows. The Outsider’s shoulders give away his breathing, a slow rise and fall. He’s in Corvo’s bed. He’s—

It hits Corvo all at once: _when he wakes, I'll finally be able to tell him._

But as long as the Outsider sleeps, they’re still friends. The Outsider isn’t pulling away, going solemn and cold, his brows furrowing in disappointment that Corvo has become so predictable. _That_ , Corvo thinks, _scares me most of all_. He was climbing out of the vent over Coldridge’s interrogation room when he heard the Outsider say it, trapped in that chair and taunting the life out of Gideon: _You were beneath my contempt…do you know why? Because you’re predictable. Unsurprising. Boring._

Except…

 _What if the Outsider_ doesn’t _pull away?_ That’s possible, too. The way the Outsider looked at Corvo back in that interrogation chair; the faint, devastated way the _Oh, my dear Corvo_ left his broken mouth; everything he’d just endured, yet he was asking whether _Corvo_ was all right—

No. Corvo’s not doing this. Not anymore. He’s not going to play _will-he-or-won’t-he_ , like the lovelorn youth he feared he’d sound like with Emily all those months ago. He’s going to bring it up, and they’re going to discuss it like the adults they are, and however it turns out, that will be that. Corvo will live with the consequences. It’s better than lying to the Outsider’s face with every benign interaction.

_I’ll tell him when he wakes._

Corvo goes to the washroom and shuts the door, splashes some water on his face. He’s bone-tired, but the water helps. He plants his forearms on the sink, sighing long and deep. However the Outsider reacts when Corvo tells him, the Abbey is gone. The Outsider is safe. Maybe Corvo can finally relax. For once.

Of course—of _course—_ as soon as he thinks it, a haze of black Void fragments twist into the air.

Corvo barely bites back a noise of frustration. “Really? _Now?_ ”

“Ingrate.” Daud is leaning against the one blank wall in the room, smirking. And smoking. His stogie looks like it was only just lit. He looks ridiculous in the space. “I just wanted to say congrats. You saved the Outsider. You put Gideon behind bars. You shut down the Abbey.”

“We,” says Corvo. He splashes more water on his face, then straightens up, reaching for a clean towel. “Emily. Billie and the others. I didn’t do this alone. You get partial credit, too. Thank you.” Face dry, he looks back at Daud. “What are you doing he—”

It occurs to him, suddenly, just how much Daud helped him. The sizable favor Daud did for him.

Helplessness seizes him by the throat; he swallows hard against it. “You want something in return.”

“You’re cleverer than you look, I’ll give you that.”

Corvo clenches his jaw. “Then get on with it. Ask.”

Daud exhales a stream of smoke. “I want you to stop fucking dancing around the way you feel about him. I didn’t give you that Mark so you could rescue a drinking buddy.”

Corvo casts one panicked look at the door— _can he hear—?_ But no. Daud’s speaking softly. It’s fine. They’re fine.

All things considered, if _this_ is what Daud wants, Corvo’s gotten away easy. But still. He’s dreading the moment all the Outsider’s warmth turns to disappointment.

“What,” grunts Daud, “don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind about him.”

That’s so ludicrous, Corvo can barely dignify it with an answer. “You know I haven’t. But he can’t…I’m just. If he pulls away, I don’t know if I can take it.”

Daud _laughs._ Quietly, but he does. “Fuck me, it’s a wonder you’ve survived this long. A wonder Emily was born at all.”

Corvo’s face goes hot. _That_ was—Jess was—it was different. Everything was different. He had nothing to lose. Or rather, no sense of self-preservation. “I don’t have to explain to you what the Outsider used to be. How uninteresting I must be to him now that he’s human, too.” _Boredom is the one thing I can’t abide._ “He can’t want the things I do.”

“He can’t?” One of Daud’s eyebrows starts climbing. “What kind of things?”

Void, where would Corvo even start? Lately, when he’s had the time to think about it, his fantasies are no longer the bent-over-his-own-desk kind. Well—they absolutely still are, but now they’re that, _and_ they’re the sort of earnest, mortifying things he barely lets himself contemplate.

Corvo lifts a hand, gesturing at nothing. Everything. “I…want to go back to Serkonos and take him with me, and hide out in one of the beach districts for a month. I want to—damn it, I want to see more of Tyvia than just the harbor, and I want him with me for that, too. I want him to accept Emily’s offer of advisorship so I’m not the only one rolling my eyes in every damn meeting. So he has an excuse to just… _be_ here. I—I want him to teach me his first language so he can have someone to say it back to him for the first time in four thousand years. I want to do what _he_ wants to do, whatever his grand designs are. He’s got a long history of other people making choices for him, so I—” He blows out a frustrated breath, hand in his hair now. “I want to know why the fuck I’m telling you all this.”

“I don’t know, either. You should be telling him.” Daud scrutinizes Corvo with those dark eyes. “You remember what I said about you not looking more closely at the mundane?”

Unfortunately. “That I never do it.”

“Yeah. I wasn’t just talking about economic reports.”

“Then…?”

“Everything you two’ve done over the last few weeks—it’s worth turning over again.”

Corvo stares. He knows what he’s seen. Experienced. But…

“Smooth stones,” says Daud. “Bedlam. Give it a shot.”

 _Maybe I will._ “Look. Whenever I do this, I don’t want to worry that you’ll show up and just fuck with it. I’m grateful for the things you’ve done for me—for Emily—but stay out of this.”

Daud lifts his hands, mock-surrender. The cigar trails smoke like steam. “After today, I’m gone—unless you ask nicely.” His smirk has a certain warmth to it. “Then I might consider it.”

Corvo sighs. He can’t keep the fondness out of his voice when he says, “Fuck you, Daud.”

Daud chuckles. “Same to you, Corvo.”

And Corvo is alone again.

He hesitates in the threshold on the way back into his room. The Outsider is still asleep, still facing away from Corvo and breathing slowly. He hasn’t budged. Corvo doesn’t want to wake him, but…the Outsider will at least want to know what happened out in the city.

_Smooth stones. Bedlam._

Corvo thinks of late nights and rooftops and rain. Decks of cards. A cigar traded slowly back and forth up on the terrace. The Outsider looking at him over a stack of invoices and that soft, steady, _I know_. The astonishment in his eyes when Corvo touched the back of his neck in that hallway. _My dear Corvo. I know you don’t belong to him._

No more excuses.

He’s going to do it.

Corvo takes an uncertain step forward. Then another. The words hover on his tongue: _Outsider. Are you awake? We should talk_. He says, “Out—”

A faint knock sounds at the door, and it opens quietly, slowly. Billie pokes her head in. When she sees the Outsider asleep, she looks at Corvo and nods back toward the hallway, brows rising hopefully.

 _Shit._ Corvo looks back at the sleeping Outsider. Then at Billie. _Shit, shit shit._

He strides from the room to meet her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, i continue to be a bastard. i’ll see you on oct 30 for some spoopy bonin!!!
> 
> for the record, i wrote their reunion scene to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WXxGbcsLhcM), so if you want to feel some super dramatic over-the-top tender feels with me, there you gooo. 
> 
> next time on AWIBA: The Moment(s?) You’ve Been Waiting For.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O HI THERE. dang, i missed you. 
> 
> so if youre studying for this one like a final you might wanna pop back to chapter three, which is more or less the thesis statement for everything that happens here—the foundation on which we’re gonna build this house. of _bonin’_.
> 
> see also: the daud scene at the end of the previous chap.
> 
> i have no excuse for how long this chapter is (it is 11.5 goddamn K). budget that time accordingly. 
> 
> **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER**  
>  schmoopy confessions, first time (ISH, see the tag above), fingering, praise kink, anal sex, rough-adjacent sex (there's some shovin and some pullin but all very VERY VERY consensual). i think that's it??? if i've missed something significant pls feel free to tell me, i'll update.
> 
> (i love you all so fucking FUCKING much i can’t believe we’re heeeere <33333)

“Tev, you didn’t have to make me something—”

“Oh, for the love of all that’s dainty, I wouldn’t have done it if I thought I _had_ to.” Tev bats greenery out of the way to set down his long mixing spoon; the plant life lining the terrace nearly hides the bar cart. Undeterred, Tev holds a faceted tumbler up to Corvo. “A stash like this, you think I can leave it alone? Neglected and unloved, all those aromatics left to wilt? Not a chance.”

“Then—thank you.” Corvo accepts the cocktail. “What’s in it?”

“Don’t worry, I know you’re a whiskey man. And this isn’t all from the kindness of my heart—I’m trying to perfect this one for the Sea’s reopening. I expect a detailed review.”

Corvo sips. He tastes the spiced depth of good, aged whiskey. Sweetness from the toasted, sugared sap they augur out of trees up in the forested north of Tyvia. Citrus and spiced bitters. It’s fucking _delicious._ He blinks at the glass, surprised.

“See,” Tev says, beaming, “that’s the face I live for. Didn’t know they could be that good, did you.”

“I didn’t. It’s unbelievable.” But Void, Corvo owes Tev far more than a compliment on his mixing skills. “I’ve been meaning to mention—the fighting ring. You must've recognized me then. I'm grateful you didn't call me out. It was—I appreciate it.”

Tev plays at affronted. “I’ve got a bit more sense than _that_ , thanks. If you weren’t drawing attention to yourself, I wasn’t about to. And I could see you didn’t recognize me.”

“I’m sorry that I—”

“No, no, I promise I’m not fishing for an apology. A fair bit’s happened since we’d last met, not to mention I'm twice as tall. Though _I’m_ sorry to say I haven’t kept up on my broom handle ripostes.”

That makes Corvo smile; he casts an eye to his drink. “I’d say you’ve found your true calling.”

“Damn right.” Tev grins, and then movement draws both their gazes. “Oi—here they are! _Now_ it’s a party!”

“Hell-ooo!” A cheery Emily is arriving on the terrace, a dwindling cocktail already in her hand; she must have been up here earlier. The Outsider is with her, drinkless, and his eyes find Corvo’s immediately, green and gray and pleased, before he submits to Tev greeting him with an enthused arm around his neck.

Corvo’s heart has just about stopped. It’s the first time he’s seen the Outsider since Billie interrupted him earlier today. First time he’s gotten a full look since last night.

The Outsider looks _so_ much better. He’s wearing his clothes from yesterday, but they’ve been laundered and pressed. His boots have even been buffed. There’s a hint of a purple bruise across his left cheekbone, but it’s faint. The split in his lower lip is gone. He’s had a shave, and his face is a little pink. His hair is tidy, pushed across his forehead. _It’s long,_ Corvo thinks, noting with a rush of fond heat that it’s just starting to curl above the Outsider’s ears. The soft, lamplit glow of the terrace looks good on him.

 _Keep it together._ Corvo takes another drink. _I can’t be mooning over him when I tell him—_

“Corvo!” says Emily, going to him. “I know Billie and Lettie kept you awhile. Were you able to get some rest?”

“I was.” Several hours’ worth, in a guest room. At that point, he could barely keep his eyes open, an exhausted headache starting to pound at his temples. He didn’t want to speak to the Outsider in that state. “Did I miss anything?”

“Only in the last few minutes.” Emily squeezes his arm, turning. “Outsider, where—come tell Corvo your news!”

_News?_

“Let the lad get a drink in his hand first.” Tev’s own hands move swiftly between bottles, pausing only to elbow the Outsider. “The day he’s had—he needs it more than anyone.”

“I won’t argue that.” The pink in the Outsider’s cheeks is becoming more pronounced; he glances at Corvo, his smile actually bashful. “But my ‘news’ isn’t so noteworthy.”

Corvo can’t help but smile back. “Apparently it is.”

“It definitely is.” Emily leans over Tev’s shoulder. “What are you making him?”

“Same thing I made our Lord Protector here.” Tev nods toward Corvo. “I need opinions on the recipe, and they’re both whiskey men, so—” He turns, offering the Outsider a glass that looks identical to Corvo’s. “All right. _Now_ you can holler about your news.”

Emily slips her arm through the Outsider’s, bringing him close. “ _Well—_ ”

“Emily,” says the Outsider, exasperated, “it really isn’t—”

“The Outsider,” Emily announces, like she’s reading a proclamation, “has agreed to become a royal advisor.”

If Corvo wasn’t already lowering his glass, he would’ve choked. _Did he hear me tell Daud—?_ No, he couldn't have. _He was still asleep._

“Part-time,” the Outsider clarifies. “And not even for a while yet. There’s some business I need to take care of, first, but. Yes.”

“ _Finally_.” Tev is delighted, leaning back against the bar cart with a drink of his own. Straight scotch, by the bottle he just put down. “I’ve been saying he needs to accept that post for ages now,” he tells Corvo and Emily, and to the Outsider, he asks, “What’s your speciality?”

“Officially,” says the Outsider, “economic affairs.”

“ _Un_ officially,” says Emily, “just about everything. Especially international affairs, whenever I need to travel. He knows all the customs. And histories, too.”

“What made you decide?” asks Corvo, hoping he doesn’t sound paranoid, but of course he doesn’t. Why would he? The Outsider didn’t overhear him; it’s an innocent enough question. He’s allowed to ask.

“I’ve just…” The Outsider frowns, apparently trying to find the words. “I’ve come to understand that Dunwall’s problems are too big for me to solve alone. Or from the shadows. If being an advisor means I can help change things for the people here, by involving others who can _make_ that change—it would be irresponsible not to take the job.”

Corvo’s heart is pitter-pattering. The Outsider will have a reason to be at the Tower during daylight hours now. They’ll need to sit in on some of the same meetings. Perhaps before or afterward, they can—

What? What _can_ they do? The Outsider may not even want anything to do with Corvo, after Corvo speaks with him.

“Cheers to you, then,” says Tev, starting to hoist his glass, but the Outsider frees his arm from Emily’s to hold up a hand.

“Please don’t,” he says, mortified, “I’d rather—I actually hoped _I_ could toast all of _you_. All together, if we can wrangle everyone. I have a lot of thanks to give.” He looks past Corvo, where Wyman and Billie and Lettie are gathered on the balcony, drinking and chatting. The sky beyond them is still dusky purple with twilight, hovering above the hazy gold glow of lights from the city.

“I’ll get them, then.” Emily moves toward the balcony. “ _Hey!_ You three!”

“ _Tev_ ,” says the Outsider, lowering at his glass when Corvo turns back, “you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

“Flatterer. Give me something coherent when you’re done.”

“What is it?” asks Billie, Emily and Wyman and Lettie trailing her—and then she sees the Outsider. “Hey, there you are! You’re looking better.”

“I’m feeling better.” The Outsider smiles at her. And everyone. “I wanted to thank you,” he says, and it’s magnetic, the way he seems to draw them all in closer. Corvo feels caught in it, too. “I never got the chance to say it last night. But all of you—I’ve heard what you did for me. I know what you risked.” His eyes linger over each of them in turn, and when he reaches Corvo, his smile only grows. “I…I’m overwhelmed. I’m gladly indebted to each of you. You only need ask, and I’ll do whatever I can. Billie, I know you wrecked your skiff to distract those guards—”

“Forget about that.” Billie smirks at Emily. “The cash for a new one is coming out of the royal reserves.”

“My _personal_ reserves,” says Emily, smirking right back. “There’s a difference.”

“ _Either way_ ,” the Outsider grouses affectionately, “I mean it. Anything at all—ask me, and it’s yours.” His eyes shine as he looks around at them all. “So. Yes. Thank you. Just—thank you. I’ll never be able to say it enough.” Pink rising in his cheeks again, he adds, “All right. Cheers, all of you.”

“Cheers, then!” Emily holds out her glass, and then Wyman echoes her and so does Lettie, and all at once, the terrace is alive with noise; the whole group is moving in, glasses clinking and clicking, the Outsider bashfully accepting handshakes and shoulder thumps amid the general chaos. Corvo doesn’t quite know which to offer, but the Outsider seems perfectly content to just nudge their glasses together when the moment comes.

“There’s something I need to know,” Emily tells the Outsider as the kerfuffle begins to calm. “Did you at _least_ get to punch Gideon in the face, before Corvo rearranged his mind?”

The Outsider sighs. “Unfortunately not. Though with my ribs in the state they were, I doubt I could have, even if I had the chance.”

“I considered giving you that chance,” says Corvo. He did, too. He meant to drag Gideon around, kick the Outsider’s cuff release lever, and hold the High Overseer still while the Outsider took a swing. But Corvo had been so furious at Gideon that he couldn't think about anything except putting him on the ground. “But from what I heard—you may as well have punched him in the face, the things you were telling him.”

“I stood on his last nerve,” the Outsider explains to Emily. “I think, anyway.”

“Stood on it,” Corvo scoffs. “More like broke it down with a battering ram.”

“Juicy secrets?” asks Emily.

“The exact opposite,” says the Outsider. “A man like him hates nothing so much as thinking he’s mundane.”

Corvo goes still.

_You remember what I said about you not looking more closely at the mundane?_

No, _no_ , it is coincidence; it’s a common enough word, and anyway, the Outsider is already sipping his cocktail and watching Emily as she speaks again, absolutely no sign that he overheard Corvo and Daud—

“All right, Corvo,” says Lettie, drawing his attention toward her and Billie, “we _need_ to know more about the Mark Daud gave you.”

“And I need to know what he said,” Billie adds. “I can’t believe he’d just—change his mind like that.”

Corvo goes to them, reluctantly leaving the Outsider behind.

As the evening passes, groups of them form and re-form, coagulating and then breaking off. Corvo longs to find a moment to pull the Outsider away, just—just say his piece and get it over with. At least then he could stop feeling so damn afraid. He’d _know_. He’d have a tangible task: stifle his infatuation, or…not.

Void. Daud implied that the Outsider might share Corvo’s feelings, but the notion is so absurd, Corvo can barely let himself linger on it. As though the very act of imagining it would take the possibility right out of his hands.

“ _There_ you are,” says Emily, meeting Corvo at the balcony railing. “I meant to tell you earlier: I’m giving you tomorrow off. It’s because of you and the Outsider that all this change is happening. You deserve a rest. Wyman can handle being Royal Protector for a day.”

“I—” Corvo doesn’t even know what to say. “I don’t mind being on duty—”

“Do you _really_ want to sit through twelve hours of meetings about the future of the Abbey?”

He lifts a brow. “No more than you do.”

“But it’s my responsibility. I’m glad to do it.” She smiles. “I _want_ to be there.”

Corvo’s spent the last few months thinking again and again that he’s never been prouder of Emily, each moment more remarkable than the last. But hearing her say this now—and watching her command the attention of Parliament early this morning, all confidence and clarity and her mother’s fire—he’s gone past pride. He realizes, with a strange, bittersweet ache, that Emily doesn’t need him anymore. As a protector, certainly, as a father, always—but to guide her? She long ago learned everything he could teach her. She’s putting her whole heart into her role. At last.

“Is this a royal decree, then?” he asks, and it rasps a little, his throat tight with that bittersweet ache. “I’ve got no choice but to take the day for myself?”

“I’ll stamp my seal on something, if that convinces you.” Emily squeezes his arm. “Go stake out another heavily-guarded building, or fight in an underground ring—whatever you do when I’m not around.”

“Are we going back to the ring?” The Outsider is approaching now, his drink down to its dregs.

“I’ve given Corvo tomorrow off,” says Emily. “So it’s possible.” She peers at the Outsider’s glass. “You’re running low! You should fill up.”

“No.” The Outsider nearly laughs. “No, I am not repeating last week’s performance. And besides, however Daud’s healing magic worked, I’m not about to tempt it with over-imbibing.”

“What about you, Corvo?” Emily nudges him. “More than one drink, since you can sleep through your alarm?”

He’s still planning on telling the Outsider before the night is over. He _cannot_ go into that conversation sloppy. “Not tonight, I don’t think.”

“I do wonder what kind of drunk you’d be,” the Outsider says, studying Corvo from under his lashes.

“If it’s anything like his younger days,” says Emily, beaming with the joy of a secret revealed, “he’d be the dancing kind.”

Corvo holds his cool glass to his temple. “You had to say it, didn’t you.”

“The _dancing kind._ ” The Outsider turns his whole body toward Corvo. “I’d completely forgotten.”

So the Outsider has seen that, too. “It’s been a long time.” Corvo sighs. “Apparently I was decent at it.”

“You’re elegant in every other way,” says the Outsider. “You must have been a natural.”

Warmth spreads from Corvo’s face to his neck. “I—maybe.”

The Outsider looks at Emily. “Has he always been like this? Parrying every compliment?”

“Long as I can remember.” Emily smirks. “Maybe you can work on him.”

“ _Em!_ ” calls Wyman from the terrace.

“ _What!_ ” Emily calls back, but excuses herself, grinning.

And suddenly they’re alone.

Just the two of them.

The Outsider moves to take Emily’s spot, leaning against the wide stone rail.

 _I can’t tell him out here. Not in front of everyone_. _I need to invite him someplace else. Someplace quiet._ Corvo says, “How are you holding up?”

Something shadows in the Outsider’s gaze. He shrugs one shoulder, looking out over the river. “I feel much better.”

Corvo hums into the last of his own drink. “ _Now_ who’s deflecting?”

The Outsider looks back at him, the corner of his mouth pulled up. “I walked into that one, didn’t I. But I _do_ feel better. Nothing hurts. A little tender, but I can live with that. It’s just…” His smile fades.

That’s a face Corvo recognizes from his own mirror. He looks out over the river, too. Down in the old financial district, someone is setting off fireworks, ascending in sparks of blue and green and red. “You’re seeing it every time you close your eyes, aren’t you.”

The Outsider’s brows lift and lower thoughtfully. Silent confirmation. “I thought I’d be fine, once I got out of there. I’ve watched the same happen to…so many others. To _you_ , even. But I didn’t understand until now.” His eyes are distant. “Gideon picked up that poker—that _knife—_ and I couldn’t even—” He shakes his head, re-focusing. “I truly don’t know how you endured it for so long.”

“Spite. Anger, by the end.” It took a few months for the numb shock to wear off. But when it did...“I knew Emily was out there. That helped.”

“And I knew you’d find a way to get me out,” says the Outsider. “ _That_ helped.” He studies his drink. “Does it get easier?”

“It does. But it’s a kind of wound all its own. It’ll scar as it heals, and it’ll haunt you for awhile. But it does get easier. And you have me.” _Assuming you don’t pull away after I tell you._ “If you ever want to talk about it—it’d probably do me some good, too.” Corvo tries to smile. “As long as I don’t have to hear any shit about me saving you again.”

The Outsider smiles back. “This time, I won’t complain. And—thank you. I knew you’d understand. I will want to talk about it, at some point.” His thumb fidgets with the facets on the side of his glass. “I’m still amazed you came to get me out yourself.”

“It was noth—”

“It wasn’t nothing. I know what it meant for you, going back there.”

The Outsider _would_ know what it meant, wouldn’t he. He _would_ understand. No one else has ever asked Corvo what it meant to live just a few steps away from the place that gave him half of his nightmares and most of his scars. The Outsider understands better than anyone. _I would do it again,_ Corvo thinks. _Over and over again, if that’s what it took to keep you at my side_.

“I was glad to do it,” says Corvo, trying to brush off the emotion tightening his throat yet again. “But Emily had a point. I _do_ wish you’d gotten to punch Gideon.”

“You taking him down was enough for me. And all his goons. I only wish I could’ve helped you fight them off, not that you needed me. Watching you fight—that was incredible.” The Outsider turns to Corvo as though he’s just had a grand revelation, his smile growing. “Corvo. We still haven’t sparred together.”

“You’re right.” Now Corvo’s face feels a little warm. “And you’ve already fixed my bonecharms. I need to hold up my end of the bargain.”

If Corvo didn’t know any better, he’d say the Outsider’s eyes were sparkling with mischief.

The Outsider says, “Let’s do it.”

Corvo stares. “What, sparring? Now?”

“Yes, sparring. Now.” The Outsider looks around. “Things seem to be winding down. Why not? I still have a lot to learn.”

As if Corvo needs to add _that_ particular accelerant to this fire. “I wouldn’t want to push you, after that healing.”

“I feel fine. I can prove it to you. Unless you think _you_ can’t handle it.”

Corvo laughs. Sparring or not, it’s a chance to actually speak with the Outsider someplace quiet. He’ll take it. “Where?”

The Outsider considers this. “Your room has a perfectly open space.”

That it does. Corvo wore himself out working through his blade forms there just two nights ago. “Then let’s go.”

“Not concerned about scandalizing the staff this time?”

 _More concerned about scandalizing our friends._ “They’ve got the night off. And they’re probably scandalized enough as it is, what with all the visitors and strange hours we’ve been keeping.”

Emily catches Corvo on the way out. Her eyes look just as mischievous as the Outsider’s. “Are we moving the party?”

“Just going to collect some of his things,” says Corvo, easy. “Moving him into a guest suite for the night.”

But Emily looks dubious. Corvo wants to sink through the balcony and into the street below. “Have fun, then,” she says, and smiles when Corvo rolls his eyes.

***

Here is the door to Corvo’s rooms. _I’m telling him._ Here is Corvo unlocking it, his hands somehow steady. _I’m telling him._ Here is Corvo pressing inside, the space familiar and wide open, dark and blue and comfortable, the fire still flickering low. Moonlight in the windows. The bed, one big shadow. _I’m telling him._

Corvo lights the lamps (just a few—light enough to see, dim enough to be cozy). He adds another few logs to the low-burning hearth. He sheds his coat.

Then there’s nothing else to do.

It’s time.

He turns around, heart in his throat—and finds the Outsider already in the center of the floor, in a ready fighting stance. The Outsider smirks, his hands lifting into loose fists.

Corvo comes closer. His face hasn’t lost its warmth from being so close to the fire. He can’t...how is he supposed to tell him when—“What,” he says, “what’s that look.”

The Outsider shrugs, his eyes delighted. “I’m still just glad to see you. It’s been since—last night, when I was in bad shape. Have you been avoiding me?”

“What? No, I—Billie and Lettie needed me, and then I had to get some sleep—”

The Outsider darts forward and takes a swing at him.

It’s entirely automatic: Corvo ducks it. The Outsider’s fist sails over his head, and as Corvo rises, he only _just_ pulls a punch to the Outsider’s ribs. It grazes the Outsider’s shirt instead ( _warm_ , _soft_ ), but as Corvo shifts his stance to dart away, the Outsider manages to swing a knee up into Corvo’s guard.

Corvo starts to block it, but their arms hook together; Corvo is jerked sideways as the Outsider manages a startled, “ _Damn it_ —” and then they’re crashing to the carpet.

Corvo’s back hits first, sprawling as the Outsider lands atop him—one strong, pale hand knotted in the front of Corvo’s shirt, the other fallen against Corvo’s right arm, pinning it to the rug. The Outsider is straddling his hips, and _fuck—_ all the heat in Corvo’s face streaks into his groin.

The Outsider is _so_ close, close enough that Corvo can see shards of darker green in the gray sage of his eyes. They’re sparkling still, delighted. The split in the Outsider’s lip from last night—there’s a faint, almost invisible scar there. Corvo hadn’t noticed it until now. His mouth goes dry.

“ _That_ ,” pants the Outsider, grinning down at him, “isn’t quite how I meant that to go.”

 _Please,_ Corvo wants to say, _please let go of me._ And also _please don’t ever let go of me._ But his aching muscles remind him that he fought off seven combatants last night, so he grumbles, “This is what I get for telling you to surprise your opponents.”

“It’s worked well enough to my advantage so far.”

 _Get up_ , Corvo thinks, about to shift. _Get up and tell him. Right now._ “You’re awfully cheery.”

“Can you blame me?” The firelight shines like filaments of gold in the Outsider’s black hair. “It’s been quite a day. Even without all of last night’s bedlam.”

Corvo freezes.

 _Bedlam._

Another of Daud's words, in the Outsider's mouth—before, it was _mundane;_ the Outsider said it so casually. And there was the advisorship role, accepted—

Corvo knows he’s gaping, but he can’t stop himself. “You…”

The Outsider has gone still, too. “Oh,” he says, soft. “I’ve finally shown my hand, haven’t I.”

Fuck.

_Oh, fuck._

_The Outsider_ did _overhear us—_

“How much—” Corvo can barely say it. But if the Outsider only caught the end of that conversation, that last bit before Daud disappeared, maybe there’s a chance—maybe Corvo can salvage this. He croaks, “How much did you hear?”

The Outsider’s smile is softer than a blue dawn on the rooftops. “Let’s start with Serkonos,” he says, still a little breathless. “Tyvia’s too cold this time of year.”

*

*

*

The Outsider watches shock light Corvo’s beautiful brown eyes. He watches the incredulous dive of one brow, the way Corvo’s chest punches down hard and then bursts back up. His heart hammers beneath the Outsider’s fist like it wants to escape his chest. Corvo manages, “You want—”

“Yes.” It’s so easy to say. All this time, and it just—falls right out of him. His own heart is racing so hard, he doesn’t think it will ever slow again. He’s been holding onto this knowledge for _hours_ , elated and eager, aching to find a moment alone with Corvo. And now—

Corvo rasps, “You feel the same—”

“ _Yes_.” The hand he locked around Corvo’s arm—the angle is awkward, but the Outsider pulls until he can settle Corvo’s warm hand over his heart. It’s beating faster than Corvo’s. Frantic.

Corvo looks back up at him, stunned. Corvo’s hand is _warm_ , broad, and it’s sliding up, heavy over the Outsider’s collar, then a bare, delicious shock against his neck, until Corvo is palming the side of his face, his fingertips in the Outsider’s hair. Corvo whispers, “How long have you…”

“Corvo.” The intimacy of saying Corvo’s name—here, like this, in the quiet with both of them still panting—it’s almost unbearable. Not even a murmur, and yet it sparks down his tongue like lighting a match, sighing from his mouth like smoke. “I feel like I’ve been waiting for you my entire life.”

Corvo’s sharp exhale is almost a moan, and it makes the Outsider’s toes curl in his boots. Corvo looks utterly broken open, devastated—almost pained, as he searches the Outsider’s eyes. As if he’s wanted this just as long. “I’m right here,” Corvo says, hoarse. “You have me.”

It’s the Outsider’s turn to breathe a noise he can’t control. Corvo’s hand curls around the back of the Outsider’s neck, into his hair. The Outsider inhales again and there’s that intoxicating scent, leather-spice-masculine- _Corvo_. “Corvo,” he says again, and it nearly undoes him; for a moment, he has to close his eyes to steady himself. “Would it be all right if I—”

“Please.” Corvo’s dark gaze keeps flickering between the Outsider’s eyes and mouth. “Yes.”

The Outsider tightens his hand in Corvo’s shirt and dips his head, closes his eyes.

 _I have no idea what I’m doing_ , he thinks in giddy alarm, but he’s _seen_ it done enough, he’s—before he can overthink it, Corvo meets him there.

Oh. Oh, _Void_ —Corvo’s _mouth_ , it is soft and careful, a brush and then a cling, and fire chases itself all through the Outsider’s chest and directly _down_ ; he twitches in his trousers. He feels bolder, so he lets his lips part and—it feels _obscene—_ lets his tongue trace against Corvo’s lower lip, searching for the faint seam of that thin scar.

He finds it just as Corvo rumbles a noise that plummets through him again, and Corvo’s hand sinks further into the Outsider’s hair, pulls him down a little harder, beard prickling, and the Outsider breathes a shaky almost-laugh and then freezes when Corvo’s tongue meets his.

Tev made them the same damn cocktail, so he tastes an echo of it on Corvo, sweet and heady, _divine_ , and _Void_ , he can’t help the needy, high-pitched noise that leaves his throat as Corvo tongues deeper. The Outsider’s whole body is shaking. He’s already so hard it hurts, straining against his trousers, barely holding his hips still.

And he needs air like he’s drowning. He retreats as carefully as he can, through slick and warm and soft, and plants his forehead against Corvo’s. Disbelief still lights Corvo’s eyes, his pupils blown dark and wide as they search the Outsider’s. But there’s a tentative smile there, too.

The Outsider needs him again. They’ve been separated for three entire seconds but the Outsider is certain that if they don’t kiss again, he’ll absolutely die without it.

So he takes it. He lets his eyes fall shut and delves back into Corvo’s mouth, no hesitation this time, devouring him. Corvo manages another surprised, pleased rumble, a tight _“Mmh_ ,” and the Outsider’s hips roll before he can have any say-so in the matter; his erection brushes up against— _oh_ , against Corvo’s, unmistakable, already just as hard and desperate even through their layers; sparks rush his body, spiraling through him, pulling a shocked moan from his lips—and another when Corvo echoes it and anchors his other hand to the other side of the Outsider’s face.

His mind is in tatters. Half his concentration is on the glide of lips and tongues, drinking in Corvo’s shuddering breaths and trying to take his own; the other half is focused on ignoring his instincts to grind his hips down _hard_. He needs. He _needs_. This is so much more intense than anything his own hand ever gave him.

Just as he releases Corvo’s shirt to dip a hand beneath his neck and into the soft hair there, Corvo’s hands tense; he pulls back. “Wait,” Corvo manages, and it’s barely words, barely air, his eyes searching. “I need you to—to wait.”

They sit up in a shaky lurch, the Outsider landing on the rug between Corvo’s spread thighs, his calves draped over Corvo’s hips. Corvo still clings to the back of the Outsider’s neck, keeping their foreheads together. Corvo manages, “I—I need you to tell me. That you’re…that this isn’t just...”

The Outsider takes Corvo’s face in his hands, thrilling in the soft-sharp prickle of Corvo’s trim beard against his palms. “Tell me your fears and I’ll assuage them.”

“I…” Corvo can’t even look at him. “I want,” he whispers, “so much. _Too_ much. You heard me, with Daud. I—I can’t…you _can’t_ want those things, too.”

Astonishment holds him still. “Of course I can.”

“But they’re all—predictable. Unsurprising, _boring_ , all of it.”

_He heard me. He must think…_

“ _Human,_ ” Corvo adds. “Which means you’ll. You’ll tire of it. Of _me_. I can’t be fascinating forever.”

The Outsider’s heart feels like it’s shattering. He tilts Corvo’s face up, and Corvo’s eyes meet his, miserable. “If you heard me speaking to Gideon, you must know I was deliberately telling him the last things he wanted to hear. The only reason I got through my time in that chair is because I was thinking about you. And me. What we could do with a predictable, unsurprising, boring time to ourselves. How we could fill the hours.”

A desperate little noise leaves Corvo’s throat.

“I’m human, too,” he reminds Corvo. “The kinds of things you want—it’s all I’ve been able to think about, from the moment Billie and Daud freed me.” He smooths his thumbs along Corvo’s prickly jaw. “I spent so many months trying to fill my hours with anything, everything, just so I could forget about wanting to share those things with you. Then you crashed into my bar, and I…” He feels as though he’s tearing his chest open, handing everything inside to Corvo. “I came alive,” he whispers, almost unable to believe he’s saying it out loud. “And every moment we’ve shared since then…Corvo, you don’t need to be fascinating. You just need to be you.”

Corvo’s brows come together, and a slow, shuddering sigh leaves him. “Then you _do_ feel the same.”

The Outsider almost laughs in relief. “Oh, you mean—hardly able to think whenever you get close? Ready to risk our friendship, the deepest I have ever known, on the chance you’d kiss me the way you just did? Going half-feral with lust every time you look at me—”

A moan spills through Corvo’s clenched jaw.

“—only truly content when I’m at your side and nowhere else? However badly it aches for you, Corvo, I assure you, I’ve suffered the same.”

“I believe you. It’s just…damn it, you know who I am. _What_ I am. My responsibilities. There are a thousand reasons we shouldn’t do this.”

“I can think of a thousand reasons why we _should_. But I’d only need one.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t even know where to _begin—_ ” Until he does. The Outsider looks up, whispers, “ _Cor meum tuum est_.”

Corvo’s brows rise. “It’s—that’s most of what you said the other night. In your first language.”

“Yes.” The Outsider’s heart rate kicks up again. Of course Corvo remembers. Of course he does.

“It wasn’t bad poetry?”

“It was. But I meant it anyway.”

Corvo is riveted. “Tell me what it means.”

The Outsider slips his hands around to the back of Corvo’s neck, threading it into that soft, thick hair. “This is your first lesson. _Cor meum tuum est._ ‘My heart is yours.’”

Corvo’s eyes fall shut, his lashes dark on his cheeks. He looks pained again. When his eyes open, they’re fiercely determined. 

He says it back.

It is so shocking that the Outsider pulls away to see him fully. When the Pandyssian civilizations crossed the sea, some of their dialects twisted themselves into the earliest Serkonan languages, which means—Corvo’s accent is perfect. Repeated exactly. The surety in it feels like a vow. It’s the single most beautiful thing the Outsider has ever heard.

“You’ll teach me more?” Corvo asks, so endearingly hopeful.

“Yes.” The Outsider is panting like he’s just scaled a whole block of sharply slanted roofs. He tips his head against Corvo’s again. “Yes, gladly. I—I can’t believe you want to learn.”

“It’s part of you. Of course I want to learn.”

The Outsider stares at him. Never, he has _never_ , in his entire life, felt so wanted. He winds his arms around Corvo’s neck and kisses him again.

“I thought about doing this,” the Outsider says between lush clings of their mouths, “last night. When you—pulled me out of that chair. But the blood, and the—”

“So did I. If your lip hadn’t been so bad…” Corvo presses their foreheads together. His thumb comes up, tracing the spot where the split healed with a faint scar.

“Corvo.” It’s magic, still. “I don’t know what your intentions are, tonight, but mine—” His breath catches. He can hardly say it: “Please let me take you to bed.”

“Yes.” Corvo nearly moans it, a visible shiver running through him. “Yes. I—just _yes_.”

“Then let’s—” They begin hauling themselves to their feet, steadying each other. Just before he straightens, the Outsider gets an eyeful of the bulge pressing beneath Corvo’s belt.

Objectively, he knows, it should be ridiculous—but logic apparently has nothing to do with it, because lust surges through him in a hot, delicious rush. He needs—he needs to _feel this_. Feel Corvo. He looks around. The closest, easiest place is the wall between sofa and window, but Void, it’s still so far, when he wants Corvo _now._

Breathing a frustrated noise, the Outsider twists both hands into Corvo’s shirt and walks him backward, aiming for that wall; Corvo crashes into it, groans “ _Yes_.” With leverage, with the wall there on Corvo’s other side, the Outsider glances down and lines them up beneath the fabric of their trousers. Then he grinds his hips into Corvo’s. Hard.

The pressure is a relief so sweet he could weep; he’s never felt anything like it. Before his groan even ends, he’s rolling his hips again. And Corvo—“ _Fuck_ ,” he rasps against the Outsider’s mouth, hands back in the Outsider’s hair, “you feel—”

“So do you.” The Outsider pulls Corvo’s shirt free of trousers and belt, then slides his hands directly up under the fabric. Corvo’s skin is fever-hot, smooth save for the ridges and valleys of old scars. “You’ll let me have you?” It’s a gasp.

“Void, yes.” Corvo’s muscles shiver beneath the Outsider’s hands.

“Tell me how you want it.”

“ _Nnnh_.” Corvo presses his forehead hard against the Outsider’s. “I want…” His gaze floats up, something glinting and hungry in it. “You’ve watched me, haven’t you? From the Void?”

The Outsider ducks his head, stringing silent curses together. “I—I never should have—”

“So you’ve seen me.” Corvo ducks his head, too, finding the Outsider’s eyes. “You know me. How do you think I want it?”

Caught, speechless, it takes the Outsider a moment to start sifting through his memories, things he’s overseen and overheard. All the ways he’s imagined giving Corvo what those partners never did, even when Corvo got up the courage to ask: _You can go harder. You can grip tighter_. “I think…” The Outsider gulps. “You want someone who handles you as though they aren’t afraid of breaking you. Who can actually give you the bruising things you ask for.” He searches Corvo’s eyes. “Who can hold you down and make you take enough to forget anything else.”

It’s the first time he notices that Corvo is shaking, too. “Fuck,” Corvo breathes, an octave higher than usual, his eyes briefly closing. “You’ve—that’s exactly it. But I—I also—”

“You want tenderness, too.” The Outsider knows. “Softness. The kind you can’t always get from someone you take to bed once and then not again.”

Corvo’s eyes brim with desperation. “I don’t know how to choose between them.”

“Corvo.” The Outsider brings his hands up to frame Corvo’s face again. He needs him to understand. “You don’t need to choose. You can have both. I can worship you with softness just as well as hold you down and take everything you have to give.”

Corvo growls a noise so deep that the Outsider barely hears it. “And what about you,” Corvo asks through his teeth. “Tell me what you need, are you—have you ever even—?”

“No.” The Outsider’s face is heating all over again, knowing exactly how humans tend to think of the inexperienced—even if Corvo wouldn’t. “I need to figure myself out a little more before I know what I like. As for what I _want…_ I’m an amateur in some ways, but I know enough. I’ve seen enough. And I…” He gives the words a try, slow, letting himself taste them the way he does with Corvo’s name: “I want to fuck you into that mattress.”

That one actually earns him a whimper. “ _Please._ ”

It sparks arousal along the edge of every one of his nerves; the Outsider drops his hands to the top button of Corvo’s shirt. “I need to see you. I need there to not be so many _clothes,_ can I—”

“Yeah.”

A few shaky plucks; Corvo’s hands join his, working from the bottom up, so they meet in the middle, and then it’s all there before him: Corvo, a bare, wide span of smooth brown skin from throat to belt, sparse whorls of dark hair down the thick slope of his chest, over his abdominals and on down, utterly ridiculous in its perfection.

Even— _especially_ —the scars. From knives and swords and burns and, the Outsider knows but can’t see, grazes from bullets along one shoulder, one thigh. He’s seen Corvo bare before, but not like this, never for _him_. He looks back up to find shattered uncertainty in Corvo’s eyes, and remembers that Corvo tends to keep lights low whenever he beds anyone, specifically because he learned the hard way that people fear men with scars like his. The Outsider manages, “Void, you’re beautiful.”

Corvo lets out a surprised breath. “I’m not—”

“It isn’t up for debate.” The Outsider’s fingertips skim the trench of a scar from collarbone to sternum—the Lord Regent’s blade, Corvo’s third night in Coldridge. The Outsider traces another, horizontal and slightly raised, across the rise of Corvo’s hip above his belt. A training session in his youth with an eager, careless fellow recruit. He looks back up; Corvo is no less shattered. “Is this all right?” When Corvo nods, the Outsider adds, “I want to see the rest.”

“ _Me_ —not while you’re still buttoned up.” Corvo starts plucking at the Outsider’s buttons, too.

As his shirt opens, he understands Corvo’s breathlessness at being so seen. The trust inherent in it. Corvo’s eyes trace over him, captivated, lingering on his scars, too. Corvo touches a long, shallow mark over his ribs. “How did you…”

“Overseer sword,” pants the Outsider. Corvo’s hands are warm, his calluses raising goosebumps in their wake. “Second or—or third?—time I jumped in to stop their raiding.”

“And you call me brave.” Corvo skates his thumb over a nipple.

The Outsider can’t stop himself arching against Corvo’s hand. “Corv— _ah_.” It has _never_ felt like that when he’s tried it himself. Corvo does it again, smiling at the sound he coaxes free, then lets his warm palm slide down the Outsider’s side, thumb now tracing into the barely-there divots of his abdominal muscles, then his hips. Then Corvo’s knuckles brush his belly and Corvo sinks careful fingertips into the Outsider’s waistband, just enough to grip his belt buckle.

The Outsider pants, “Do it. I want you to.”

“ _Ungh_.” It sounds heavy in Corvo’s mouth. He starts plucking at the tight leather, feeding it back through the buckle as the Outsider reaches for Corvo’s belt, too. Their shaking knuckles collide, foreheads together so they can look down, watching, gasping. How many times has the Outsider thought of this, in the darkness of his own room—Corvo already has the Outsider’s pants open, sifting past the tails of his shirt and through his smallclothes until Corvo is curling a hand around—

“ _Corvo!_ ” The Outsider can’t believe the tone of his own voice, loud and low, given up from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips roll into the rough heat of Corvo’s hand, his breathing erratic, helpless; Corvo’s eyes shine with reverence as he looks back up, threads his other hand into the Outsider’s hair and pulls them back together for a kiss. He just keeps his other hand between them, lets the Outsider moan and stutter up into it, grip starting to catch against the slick welling up from his cock.

The Outsider wants—his mind is in tatters again. He wants Corvo to feel the same. He forces his hands to keep working until the weight of Corvo’s belt is pulling his trousers open. The Outsider yanks gracelessly at Corvo’s smallclothes until Corvo practically twitches into his palm, _oh—_ smooth as silk, _hot_ , an easy slide from root to tip, and Corvo moans so sweetly—

—and gathers them both in his broad hand.

The noise that whines from the Outsider’s throat— _I sound like a wild animal_ , he thinks, even as he pushes into Corvo’s grip, riding together. His heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his cock, and he’s half-certain he can feel an echoing heartbeat in Corvo’s, too. Corvo growls another tight, wordless noise, a bass rumble that seems to be the only thing standing between self-control and ruin. His other hand drops to anchor itself on the Outsider’s hip, his dark eyes not on the sight between them, but holding the Outsider’s gaze.

The Outsider’s face is burning up; he’s sure his blush has spilled down to his chest by now. It is almost unbearable, to be scrutinized so closely. He supposes it’s a fair trade, after how much he’s watched for the last fifteen years. “Corvo,” the Outsider gasps again—never enough, he needs more, more of that name on his tongue. “If we don’t—move this along, I might—”

Corvo releases him, but works one hand up under the Outsider’s shirt at the shoulder, the other sliding around to palm his lower back, his fingers digging in. “Let’s undress before we get into bed.”

“ _Yes_.” The Outsider is already wrenching Corvo’s shirt down his absolutely ridiculous shoulders—broad, corded with muscle, crowded with scars. He starts on Corvo’s trousers next, but Corvo stops him.

“Wait,” he says, eyes dancing, “boots first.”

They use each other for balance, stumbling toward the bed as they work, so absurd that the Outsider stifles a laugh against Corvo’s shoulder, bare and warm, so much solid muscle there to meet him, and Corvo is smiling too, beaming at him, disbelief still lingering in his eyes.

And there’s a moment, regaining their footing, when the Outsider looks up and they’re both just—inexorably, undeniably naked, though there isn’t enough space between them for a good look. The Outsider’s hands land on the curved rise of Corvo’s biceps, Corvo’s hands settling hot at the Outsider’s waist, then roaming back, around, smoothing up his spine, over his shoulder blades. _He’s shaking again,_ the Outsider thinks. _Or maybe he never stopped._ “You’re here,” Corvo whispers. One hand rucks up into the Outsider’s hair; the other slides down his back again, and then lower. “You’re actually—you want this.”

The Outsider can barely breathe. “Get on the bed,” he murmurs. “I’ll show you how much.”

They pull each other toward it. Corvo is—there is so _much_ of him in the soft lamplight, and now, as he gets a knee up on the mattress, firelight, gilding him in shades of autumn. Shadows reach between the rises of his muscles. As spellbound as the Outsider is, Corvo’s face, as they draw each other up—he looks pained again, desperate in a way that makes the Outsider’s chest hitch.

Corvo takes the Outsider’s hands and leans back. “Come here,” he says.

From up on his knees, spread on either side of Corvo’s muscled thighs—oh, Void, the Outsider can see every single scar, the shift of each muscle, every twitch of Corvo’s cock. It’s better, so much _more_ , than anything he imagined, even with memories to guide him. He lets Corvo draw him down, his legs shaking as he stretches out against the long bronze line of Corvo’s body and settles in against him.

The utter heat of it—the _relief_ of contact, after needing Corvo so long _—_ he’s dizzy with it. Drunk on it, letting it consume him from the outside in. “Oh Void,” he breathes, forehead back against Corvo’s. “ _Corvo_.”

“Yeah.” Corvo’s hands are roaming over him again, insatiable, crushing them together until they dip past his hips, over his ass, a careful knead.

The Outsider looses another undignified whine, and kisses Corvo again, getting down onto his elbows so their chests brush, too. His heart is hammering. The soft, electric glide of Corvo’s kisses are sending shocks right to his cock, harder when Corvo bites at his lower lip. “ _Oh_ ,” says the Outsider, aiming for bold but landing miles away, “is that how it is.” He takes Corvo’s own lower lip in his teeth, biting carefully, soft at first and then harder, until Corvo chokes and his hips roll up beneath the Outsider’s. Releasing him, the Outsider murmurs, “ _That’s_ something I’m going to keep in mind.” He sits up, skims his blunt nails down Corvo’s stomach just to watch the muscles jump. “Void, there’s so much I want to do, but…I feel too impatient.”

“We can take our time later.” Corvo’s hands settle on the Outsider’s hips. “For now, I—I’m impatient, too.”

“For what,” says the Outsider, smoothing his hands back up Corvo’s chest, trying again to sound bolder than he feels. “For me to open you up so I can fit myself inside you?”

Corvo’s eyes nearly roll back in his head. “Y-yeah, that’s—” He breathes out hard when the Outsider skims fingertips along his nipples. “ _Ah_. Let me get oil.” He starts a crooked smile. “Unless you already know where I keep it.”

Shame flashes through him. “I—”

“I know. I’m teasing you.” Corvo leans up to kiss him. “I’ll get it.” He rolls toward the nightstand.

It gives the Outsider a perfect view of Corvo from behind, which is just—sen _sational._ Corvo comes back with a vial, and the Outsider plucks it out of his hand.

“Seems like you know what you’re doing,” mutters Corvo, like _he’s_ the one with reason to be shy.

“I know enough.” And seen enough, like he mentioned earlier. “Though I’ve been learning that there is a…frustrating difference between observation and practice.” He gnaws his lower lip, almost swollen from all Corvo’s attention. “You’ll need to tell me if I do something you don’t like.”

“I can do that.”

“Good.” The Outsider hesitates, then adds, “Turn over.”

Corvo’s chest punches down again. “ _Yes._ But when we—I want to be—”

His heart leaps. “Just for the moment. Until you’re ready.”

They arrange themselves, Corvo drawing a pillow into his arms, the Outsider kneeling between the thick spread of his thighs. Void, the firelight is marvelous on Corvo, sculpting him out of light and shadow in sinuous long lines and tempting curves. More scars cross his back; the Outsider can’t help but smooth a hand down his spine, arousal darting to his cock when Corvo nearly arches up into the touch. “By the Void,” he murmurs, astonished at the hush in his own voice. “Corvo, you’re magnificent.”

Corvo, who was just twisting back to look at him, hides his eyes against his arm. “You can’t keep—”

“Yes, I can.” The Outsider dips his thumbs into the cleft of Corvo’s ass, adoring the way Corvo moans. “Do you not believe me when I compliment you?” He opens the vial.

“It’s not that. It’s just—” He looks back again, pleading. “I don’t deserve—”

The Outsider says, “Yes, you do,” and runs a slick finger over him.

Corvo’s entire body jerks; he presses back into the touch with a stifled groan. The Outsider, breathless, can only keep going, a slow back-and-forth. Corvo’s shoulders tremble. “Beautiful,” says the Outsider, mouth watering. “No one’s ever affected me like this. The way you have. And _still_ do. Do you understand, how superlative you are?” He presses in gently and retreats; Corvo breathes out hard, with voice to it, hips rolling back to meet him. “Four thousand years of thinking I understood everything—that I’d seen every possible thing—and then I met you.”

Muscles in Corvo’s arms shift and flex as he grips the pillow. He is trying, the Outsider feels, to loosen up around that single finger. “ _Outsi_ —”

“Every one of my expectations, shattered.” The Outsider presses in again, entranced as Corvo accepts him to the first knuckle. “I’d forgotten what it was to be surprised.”

Sweat is starting to shine along Corvo’s back, tension making him shake.

“You were so stubborn,” the Outsider says, voice breaking when he’s able to start a slow slide in and out, and Corvo gasps, his mouth open, his eyes closed. “Willful. With my Mark, you should have burned Dunwall to the ground. Instead you—” He presses deeper on this thrust. “—you torched every last path I saw for you. You _delighted_ in it. I never did manage to look away. I didn’t realize what that was until I left the Void, and you were all I could think about.”

Corvo’s shoulders are tight. “You—mentioned that, earlier, but I…I can’t believe…”

“Can you really not?” The Outsider leans over Corvo’s back, planting his forehead against a long, raised scar. A Coldridge whip in the hand of a bored guard. “Why?”

“Because—” Corvo’s hips tilt back into the Outsider’s slick touch, buried to the last knuckle. “You were all I could think of, too. I thought I was alone, in wanting to see—to _know_ —so much more of you.”

“This is what I mean.” The Outsider presses his mouth to that scar. “No one has ever cared to know me the way you have.” The truth of it makes him feel lightheaded. “No one has ever given a damn for anything besides my power. What I can do for them.” He adds a second finger, stifles a moan when Corvo’s body just takes him in, and Corvo breathes out hard once more. “And now that I’m human—without that power—I think you like it _better_. That admiration, from someone like you—I can barely fathom it.”

“Someone like—what does that even—”

“Clever.” He strokes his thumb against the rim just to feel Corvo shudder. “Brilliant. Your integrity—the way you move when you fight—the dedication it took to hone your skills—” He looks up. Corvo is hanging onto every word. “And yes, brave. You rushed back into your own worst nightmare to save me from the same.”

“I would do it again,” Corvo pants, shuddering. “For you, I…”

“See,” the Outsider whispers. He cannot believe he gets to have this. Have Corvo. “Magnificent. I admire your selflessness, Corvo. So much. But I—I want you to take for yourself, too.” He slips a third finger in beside the others.

“Void,” Corvo chokes, twitching back into the press. Sweat shines on the back of his neck, down the dip of his spine. “Fuck, I—Outsider. _Fuck_. I—I need—”

Heat blooms in the Outsider’s belly and darts through his limbs. “Almost,” he says, stretching his fingers as much as he can. Corvo is still tight around him, a smooth slide. He can’t imagine what it will be like around his cock. “Hard as I’m going to give it to you, I want you open for me.”

Corvo makes a sound like “ _Mmmh”_ through his clenched jaw. “Are you trying to kill me, I—” But on the Outsider’s next stroke in—slow, _deep—_ Corvo’s entire body goes rigid and a groan bursts from his mouth like it was punched out of him. The noise hits the Outsider like a lightning strike. Curious, he traces back over the same spot, and Corvo bucks back against him, starting a curse, but failing to finish it. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since someone’s been able to reach th— _ah!”_

The Outsider has curled his fingers, pressing firmly. “Too long, clearly.”

Corvo seems near incoherency. “Please,” he says, “I need—fuck—”

The Outsider pushes into that spot a little harder, rubbing at it, and Corvo actually whimpers. “I told you,” the Outsider murmurs, his face scorching, “I’m taking everything I want from you.”

“Oh Void.” Corvo’s voice is low in his chest. “Stop, if you—I won’t last, I won’t—”

“All right.” He kisses Corvo’s back, the divots low on either side of his spine, and eases his fingers free. Suddenly he’s hyperaware of the agonizing slide of fluid down his own cock; he needs this, needs Corvo. “All right. Come on. Let me see you.”

Corvo rolls, shoving the pillow under his hips; the flex of his muscles is astounding. He’s _so_ hard, the head of him wet and slick where he’s been leaking all over the bed. The Outsider is panting open-mouthed, vial forgotten in hand, watching him. “Corvo, by the Void, look at you.”

Corvo laughs darkly. “You only say that because you can’t see yourself.” He blinks like he’s trying to wake himself from a dream, tracing his gaze over the Outsider up and down and back again. “You’re so beautiful I can’t believe you’re real.”

“Fortunately for both of us, I am.” The Outsider remembers the oil and slicks himself up. Corvo watches him work, spellbound. He arranges himself between the spread of Corvo’s thighs—Void, the _muscle_ there, it’s as ridiculous as the rest of him. _He’d do this for you, too,_ the Outsider thinks in a daze. _All that power, driving into you—_

“Come on,” Corvo’s saying, “Outsider, please, I need you to—”

The Outsider hooks his arm under Corvo’s knee, pulls it up and over his shoulder, and Corvo groans, spread wide, _wide_. The Outsider uses his spare hand to guide himself to Corvo’s entrance, and _oh_ , even just that initial touch, it’s—it’s too much, he can’t—he looks down at Corvo, just as bleary-eyed. The Outsider presses his mouth to Corvo’s knee. “Tell me,” he slurs there. His thighs are shaking, and so are Corvo’s. “Tell me what you need.”

Corvo rumbles again, his chest punching up and down. “I need—I need you to fuck me, _please_ , I can’t–”

The Outsider releases a shuddering breath, the corner of his mouth rising. “If you insist.”

Corvo huffs half a laugh, smirking right back. “You’re such a—”

Slick heat closes around the Outsider’s cock in a tight, smooth glide as he presses inside, and—“Oh—C- _Corvo!_ ” The shout bursts out of him without his permission, shocking him into stillness.

Corvo—who’s trailing off a groan of his own—looks like he’s barely holding back another laugh. “Yeah,” he pants, palming the Outsider’s face. “A lot of noises, you— _nnh_ —don’t really control. _Fuh—_ is it—is it good?”

The Outsider releases Corvo’s knee and drops down over him, belly to belly, Corvo’s cock a searing line of heat between them. “Yes, it’s—” He turns his eyes against the press of Corvo’s hand to gasp for air there. He twitches his hips just a little, and all-consuming arousal blinks through him in bright, deep sparks, over and over. His whole body shudders. “ _Fuck!_ ”

“Think I’ve only heard you say that once. Apart from the. The mattress com _ment—”_ Corvo winds his hands into the Outsider’s hair. His knees frame the Outsider’s hips, warm and somehow steadying. “You were tipsy.”

“At a loss for— _oh.”_ His heart is pounding. Good as he thought this would be, it wasn’t even close. “I—I’ll give you what you want. Let me just get my bearings.”

“I have everything I want.” Corvo drops a hand to push himself up, connecting their foreheads. From so close, the intensity in his eyes—“Everything.”

The Outsider is overwhelmed. He is consumed by this. There’s no room in his heart, in his mind, for anything except Corvo. “Then I’ll give you more.” He eases his hips back and then rolls them forward again.

Corvo _sobs_. The Outsider’s stifled moan turns to a whimper as pleasure tears through him, urgent and hot and smooth. He does it again; it’s absolutely _delicious_ , the tightness, the slick of it, the way they’re connected so absolutely, so totally. As their hips seal together again, he plants his hands on Corvo’s chest to push him back down, and almost falls overtop of him but catches himself on Corvo’s arms and presses them flat to the mattress, rakes them up to circle Corvo’s wrists.

“Yes,” Corvo gasps, the curved muscles in his arms flexing as he tests the strength and finds the Outsider unyielding, “ _yes_ —”

The Outsider leans as much weight into them as he can, digs his knees into the blankets in search of leverage. “I do fear you’re going to bruise.”

Corvo’s eyes find his. “Don’t hold back. I’ll tell you if I—”

It’s all the Outsider needed to hear. He finds the leverage he needs, rolls his hips back, and then _shoves_ in as hard as he can.

“ _Outsid—_ ” It’s lost in a cry. “ _Fu—”_ The rest of the word disappears on the next stroke, just as brutal as the first. “ _Yes_ —by the fucking— _Void_ —”

“ _Corvo._ ” He feels delirious with heat. Pleasure arcs through him, taking root somewhere low in his belly and building, and he chases it, thrusting deep into Corvo with absolutely no finesse, a sloppy, erratic, _hard_ rhythm that drives Corvo another inch up the mattress every time their hips thump together. He’s only marginally aware of the way he’s moaning, babbling Corvo’s name.

“Let me,” gasps Corvo, pushing up against one of the Outsider’s hands, “I need—”

The Outsider releases his hand and Corvo slaps it up against the headboard to keep himself from lurching any further toward it, and now he’s got his own leverage to meet the Outsider at the crest of every thrust, _fuck—_

“Corvo.” He is incinerating. He’s being consumed from the inside out. He can’t stop touching Corvo now that he’s got a hand back. He smooths it up Corvo’s chest. Down his shoulder. “Corvo.” He sinks his hand into Corvo’s hair next, and he remembers—Void, he remembers, so many times, the things Corvo asked for and never got. _You can go harder. You can grip tighter_.

He wanted, so much, to give those things to Corvo without Corvo ever needing to ask. Here, he finally has the chance, so he—he tangles his fingers through the hair at the crown of Corvo’s head and tightens his grip _hard_.

A shocked groan bursts out of Corvo, so loud that the Outsider’s hips stutter to a startled halt. It’s the same sound Corvo made when the Outsider found that spot inside him. Corvo’s hand drops from the headboard, and he just—lets the Outsider keep his head drawn back. Corvo’s eyes are closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks, his throat half in shadow, half in gold from the firelight, sweat-bright and bared like an animal’s. He’s gone still, or he’s trying; he shakes all over. The surrender of it—the _vulnerability—_

“Void help me,” the Outsider breathes.

Corvo gasps, “Where have you _been_ , fuck, I—”

“You really have been neglected, haven’t you.” The Outsider leans up, lets his lips catch underneath Corvo’s jaw where the beard tapers away. He sets the edge of his teeth against the sensitive skin there, and Corvo’s moan shudders his whole chest. “I could pull a little harder if I was behind you. But we can save that for another time.” He releases Corvo’s hair, re-steadies his knees, and picks up where he left off. Just as hard. Just as deep, no grace and all instinct, and Corvo’s face goes beatific as he gives in to it, his eyes still closed, his head tilting back again.

The Outsider has never seen Corvo like this, so lost in the pleasure of it. He’s put control completely in the Outsider’s hands. From Corvo, the gift is staggering. It must be overwhelming for him, too. But with his head tilted back, he seems far away.

The Outsider swipes a hand through the oil where they connect, then wraps it around Corvo’s cock, strokes him slow and tight, almost cruelly so, and Corvo’s back arches like ancient ruins. “Stay with me,” the Outsider pleads, and Corvo sobs again but opens his eyes. “There’s only this. Only us.” Corvo is starting to slick his knuckles, more on every stroke. All the heat building deep within the Outsider—it’s winding tighter and tighter, a blissful torment that curls his toes with the force of it. “I want you to do this for—for me, too,” murmurs the Outsider. “To fuck me like this. I want you in so many ways. There isn’t—Void, the things I’ve done with you in my mind—”

“Fuck.” Corvo hides his eyes in the Outsider’s arm still pinning his wrist. “Oh, tell me you’re—I’m close, I can’t—”

The Outsider lets go of Corvo’s wrist, eases a thumb up underneath Corvo’s jaw, fingertips in his hair to tilt him up. “Corvo. Look at me.”

Corvo’s throat bobs against a gulp, but he does it. “I—”

“I want to see your face when you come. Please let me see you. I need—”

Corvo threads both his hands into the Outsider’s hair, thumbing a shaky, tender caress over the shells of his ears. “For you,” he says against the Outsider’s mouth. Locking their eyes. “Only for you.” And then he gasps, “ _Outsider—_ ”

It starts in Corvo’s face—his brows screwing up almost in surprise, his jaw clenched before a moan leaves his mouth wet and open, turns into a shout, and he tightens around the Outsider’s cock as he spills all over the Outsider’s hand. The sight of it, the feel of it, Corvo’s wide brown eyes holding his, dark and desperate—suddenly all the flashes of arousal building low and tight in the Outsider’s belly reach a high precipice unlike any he’s ever known—and then it drops back through him, _hard_. He crashes into his orgasm, plummets into the heat of it, loses himself in the fall.

It is nothing like his own hand. It’s hot and slick and grasping, _tight_ , and there’s no finesse in the way he’s rocking himself into Corvo, over and over, mindless, near feral, urgently chasing the bliss of it with his forehead pressed to Corvo’s, helpless to stop his own gasping cries as Corvo looks at him like he still can’t believe it, like the Outsider’s given him a gift too precious to believe, and then it’s over, still spectacular but undoubtedly _done_. The Outsider stills, and for a long, twitching, moment, he doesn’t move except to try to catch his breath, gulping air. Corvo does the same. Their mouths brush.

Arms shaking, the Outsider manages, “Corvo—”

Corvo says, “Come here, I’ve got you,” and the Outsider separates them before he slumps gratefully against Corvo’s chest.

For a second, anyway. “Oh,” he says, near laughing, still breathless, trying to get back up, “I should find something to clean us up—”

“In a minute.” Corvo pulls him back down, arms banding across his back, one hand smoothing up into his hair. “Fuck,” he breathes into the Outsider’s neck. “ _Outsider._ ”

The Outsider turns his face toward Corvo’s, ends up propped on an elbow to kiss him. There’s less desperation in it. It’s slow and lush, worn out. Corvo’s hands roam hot all over him, calluses raising gooseflesh everywhere. Tension is easing out of the Outsider’s muscles. “I see why people fall asleep so quickly afterward,” he says. His eyelids are already heavy.

“It’s work, isn’t it,” Corvo agrees, blinking sleepily back at him. Yet he looks radiant. “Was it all right?”

“My only regret is that we didn’t do it earlier.” The Outsider leans in to kiss Corvo again. His _lips_ , the softness—the Outsider can’t get enough. “You know how long I’ve wanted you. How long has it been, for you?”

Corvo brushes hair out of the Outsider’s eyes, his expression thoughtful. “I’m not really sure. It’s…years. There’s a visit I remember, when I saw you and—” He pulls his lower lip into his mouth, guilty. “I wanted to—do things with you—and realized it wasn’t the first time I’d wanted it. That I’d _been_ thinking of you that way. It just…became part of my life. Without me even noticing it.”

They wasted so much time. But his old self wouldn’t have understood.

“It only intensified when we met again a few weeks ago,” Corvo murmurs. “I’d missed you. More than I can say. Having you back…it’s like you said. I feel more alive. More… _me_. I keep thinking about things I haven’t thought about in…” He lifts a brow, considering. “It’s been a long time.”

“What kind of things?”

Corvo runs a hand down his face, abashed. “The kind of things you heard me tell Daud. I can’t _believe_ you, holding onto that the whole day—”

“What was I supposed to do?” The Outsider is trying not to laugh. “I couldn’t find you, and I wasn’t about to tell you up on the terrace, in front of everyone—”

“Right, so you lured me back here with that Voidawful sparring plan—”

“It got us where we needed to go, didn’t it?”

“I _guess._ ” Corvo kisses him, then nuzzles his nose. His brown eyes are searching. “You know, it feels strange calling you ‘Outsider,’ in the midst of all that. You’re so much more now.”

The Outsider feels dizzy all over again. “And here I’ve spent all this time thinking I’m so much less.”

“No.” Corvo says it fiercely. “Not to me. Not to our friends.”

His face is heating. “Well. I’ve been meaning to work a little harder on finding a name for myself. I’ll have to redouble my efforts. Give you something else to shout the next time we do this.”

Corvo laughs. He pulls the Outsider down for another kiss.

They clean themselves up in the washroom. It takes longer than the Outsider would’ve thought; sex-sated Corvo is doggedly affectionate, hungry for soft kisses and lingering touches. When they climb back into bed, Corvo slots in behind him. “Let me hold you?” Corvo asks, and it’s almost _nervous_.

“Please,” says the Outsider, and Corvo slips an arm beneath his neck, winds the other around his waist, and pulls them flush together. “By the Void,” the Outsider breathes, relaxing into it—the warmth of Corvo’s body, the coziness of the blankets. “This is…”

“Yeah.” Corvo breathes a weary sigh—pained, but not in the desperately needy way from before.

“Corvo?” The Outsider weaves their fingers together at his waist.

“Sorry. I’m all right.” Corvo nestles into him, kisses the back of his neck. “Just…damn, it’s been a long time.”

The Outsider’s heart breaks and mends all at once. He snuggles further back against Corvo. “I could hold you instead, if you like.”

“We’ll get there. For now…let me give you this.” Corvo smiles against him. “Among other things.”

“Other things?"

Corvo murmurs, “ _Cor meum tuum est,_ Outsider _._ ”

It startles a whimper from the Outsider’s throat. He’s exhausted, but his heart is so full, he can barely stay still. He rolls over in Corvo’s arms, bringing them almost nose to nose on the pillow. The firelight puts flickers of gold in Corvo’s soft brown eyes. The Outsider’s lower lip is trembling when he manages, “ _Te amo,_ Corvo.”

Corvo’s face lights, beautiful in his curiosity. “What’s that one mean?”

The Outsider nudges their mouths together and whispers, “I think you already know.”

Corvo pulls him in closer, and says it back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if there’s any doubt about what those two words translate to, [ click here](https://translate.google.com/#view=home&op=translate&sl=la&tl=en&text=te%20amo).
> 
> anyway dont @ me about the cliche of vials-always-at-the-ready-in-smut, this is a universe canonically CHOCK FULL OF VIALS, absolutely lousy with vials, i’m allowed—
> 
> next time on AWIBA: losers in gross love, more sexytimes, everyone finally getting to be like WE FUCKING KNEW ALREADY jESUS
> 
> happy halloween my spoopy loves <3


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i live in the US _and_ my clown ass is still lingering in the spn fandom, so it is frankly hysterical that i thought i could finish a huge chapter this week. or a small one. get a load of this delay in uploading! anyway, there’s now one more chapter after this, THEN an epilogue.
> 
> yeah
> 
> what a fuckin year huh
> 
>  **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER**  
>  two (2) yappy boys talking a _lot_ about feelings and their own damage, blow jobs, reeeeeally mild D/s undertones maybe?
> 
> (i love all of you so much i cannot even EXPRESS how much your lerv has meant to me over this past week in particular, what with [gestures broadly @ the world], seriously you all complete me and im fully living for your yells <333333)

The Outsider drifts awake, hazily confident that something woke him, but finding only quiet and darkness. And the cozy warmth of Corvo. His head is against Corvo’s shoulder, his right hand resting in the dip of Corvo’s chest, Corvo’s hand wrapped around his.

Bliss. This is bliss, a greater contentment than he has ever—

Corvo flinches (it occurs to the Outsider that it’s the second time; the first flinch must have woken him) and mutters something faint but desperate-sounding, and then his breathing quickens, his hand suddenly clenching tight. His brow furrows sharply.

The Outsider gets onto his elbow, heart skipping. “Corvo?”

Corvo wakes with a gasp and lurches up to his hands, where his whole body goes rigid except for the tremor in his arms. It only lasts a moment before he gets his bearings, his shoulders slumping. He pushes himself further upright, his silhouette limned in the dying glow of the hearth. “Shit,” he mutters. He runs a hand down his face, beard rasping. “M’sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I don’t mind.” The Outsider hesitates, then asks, “Where were you?”

“Three guesses.” Corvo breathes out long and slow. “Rescue didn’t go so well this time.”

Slowly, the Outsider sits up beside him, fighting back the need to apologize. _If I hadn’t gotten myself captured in the first place, he wouldn’t have had to go back there._ But Corvo doesn’t need the added stress of reassuring him.

Before the Outsider can think of something soothing to offer, Corvo mutters, “Last night, when we were there...I nearly throttled him with those shadows. Gideon, I mean.”

The Outsider remembers the pause between Gideon hitting the floor and Corvo coming around to hit the release lever for the cuffs. He shifts closer to Corvo, pressing them bare shoulder to bare shoulder. His single scar, mended by Corvo’s hands, against the tapestry of marks across Corvo’s skin.

Corvo’s eyes close, but he doesn’t pull away. “I could’ve put him and everyone else in that room on the ground before they knew I was there. I had enough sleep darts.”

The Outsider remembers seeing Corvo’s crossbow, too. Unused at his hip.

“But I…I was furious. I _wanted_ to fight them.” Corvo sinks his hand into his hair, his fringe standing at wild angles. “Then I lost track of Gideon and he nearly killed you. Because of _me_. Because I couldn’t just stay out of the way and take them all down quietly.” He huffs a bitter laugh. “You know, you make such a—a fuss about me not tearing Dunwall apart when I had the chance _._ But I wanted to. Fuck, I wanted to.”

 _I know_ , the Outsider thinks fiercely. _I already know._ But he won’t interrupt. Corvo rarely speaks so much, and it seems he isn’t done.

“All those people I left alive—some of them, it would’ve been a mercy to kill. You know it would have. But I let them live _because_ they suffered more when I stayed my hand. I _wanted_ them to…” He’s hunched over himself, as though bracing for the Outsider’s judgment.

So the Outsider presses against him a little harder, murmuring, “Did you think I don’t know this about you?”

Corvo doesn’t speak, but there’s something hopeful in the infinitesimal turn of his head toward the Outsider.

“I admire you _because_ you came so close to cutting a red swath across the city and didn’t. _Because_ the bloody choice was so tempting—so damn easy—and still, you chose to walk the harder path. For Emily. For Jessamine. For the integrity of your own soul. If leaving some people to the unkindness of life let you take even part of the vengeance you deserved, then so be it. And if braining a few Coldridge guards meant they’d still get to go home to their families, because you know, Corvo—you _know_ —that for every sadist, there are twenty more lackeys just holding down jobs to keep their loved ones fed—so be that, too.”

Corvo’s hand shifts from his hair to cover his eyes, but his free hand finds the Outsider’s in the dark between them and grips it tight.

Encouraged, the Outsider sets his chin on Corvo’s shoulder, so relieved that he can offer comfort with a touch. “The violence done to you made you who you are now,” he murmurs. “The same as it did to me. Of course there are times we want to give it back. Even as we protect others from being shaped by like we were.”

For a long while, there’s no sound but the occasional spark and pop from the hearth. At last, Corvo says, “When did you ever want to give it back?”

When _hasn’t_ he? “Every time those Overseers came raiding in my district. When Gideon was tormenting Lettie. When he made you take off your mask.” The Outsider swallows hard. “When Delilah stole your Mark and locked you in that stone. I thought I…I’d never been so angry.”

Corvo finally looks back at him, eyes pleading.

The Outsider tries to smile. “I don’t pick the parts of you I want and discard the rest. I’m here for all of you. The part that wanted to burn down Dunwall and wring Gideon’s neck, _and_ the part that held yourself back because you knew you'd never forgive yourself if you did. Because you knew holding back was the right thing to do, no matter how wronged you'd been.”

“I should’ve known you’d understand. You always do.”

“If only I could’ve shown you earlier.”

“You did, in your way. Before. Every time you’d visit—” Corvo’s eyes flicker to the sofa and back. “—you always managed to just…say exactly what I needed to hear. Or you sorted out something I’d missed.”

The Outsider's face warms. “I always hoped I’d helped in some way. It was important to me. I didn’t know what to call that feeling then.”

At last, Corvo smiles a little. He strokes the Outsider’s knuckles. “Tell me something,” he says. “How is this—you and me—going to work when we’re not…” He gestures to the bed. Maybe the whole room. “…here? When we’re out in public?”

 _However you want,_ the Outsider thinks. _Tell me how you want to do this, and I'll do it_. Instead he says, “Tell me why you sound so afraid of how I'll answer.”

Corvo gulps. The Outsider presses his mouth to Corvo’s shoulder now in silent encouragement.

“I’ve had to hide every good thing I’ve ever had,” says Corvo. It’s so quiet. “I don’t know if I can do it again. But I…you _can’t_ want the kind of public life that would come of being with me. Your every move under scrutiny—your business made public—and you might be scores of lifetimes older than me, but you _look_ so much younger, and the gossipmongers would never let that go. The scandal they’d make out of it—the things they’d say about you—”

“Corvo.”

“I know. It’s ridiculous to wish for. You don’t even have a name, and you’d have to make up an entire—”

“ _Corvo._ ” The Outsider releases Corvo’s hand so he can invite himself into Corvo’s lap, straddling him and twisting the blanket up between them in the process. He sits back onto Corvo’s folded thighs. As Corvo looks up at him, the Outsider notices the faintest smudge of color against Corvo’s throat, right where he’d nibbled there earlier, when he tipped Corvo’s head back with a tight fist in his hair.

 _That’s_ something he can reminisce about another time. Now, the Outsider braces his forearms on Corvo’s shoulders and links his hands behind Corvo’s neck. Corvo’s face is a wide-open wreck of hope and misery both, but his huge, warm hands settle against the Outsider’s waist. “When I accepted that advisor position,” says the Outsider, “I knew I was opening myself to public scrutiny. That’s why it isn’t official yet. I have things to do in my district, and I _do_ need to find a name. And invent and substantiate a suitable history for myself. As for the _other part_ …” The Outsider bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “Do I need to remind you about the _several millennia_ I spent as the most infamous person in the Isles?”

Corvo blinks at him, eyes wide. “I—"

“The things people have already said about me—I’m the source of the world’s evils, I seduce good and kind stricture-adherers into committing heinous acts—” The Outsider grins. “Honestly, ‘you’re too young for him’ would be a refreshing change of pace.”

“I…you’re right. I know you’re right.” Corvo’s thumbs rove against the Outsider’s flank.

“Whatever they have to say, let them say it.” The Outsider tries not to arch into Corvo’s touch. “If it means I get to stay close to you no matter where we are, I’m glad to. Though if you’re concerned about how old I look, I could always grow a beard.”

Corvo hums a smile. “I’ll leave that one up to you. But I wouldn’t mind if you did. I liked the stubble.” His hand comes up, brushing across the Outsider’s cheek. His smile wavers.

The Outsider kisses Corvo’s forehead. “You have other fears.”

“Don’t you?” It’s a little desperate.

“Of course I do.” The Outsider gulps. “I’m afraid of not being enough for you because I’m not what I used to be—even though I’ve heard your opinion on the matter. Fears aren’t always rational.”

Corvo huffs. “Could say that again.” He nestles the Outsider a little deeper into his arms. “What else?”

Grateful for the blanket still pooled between them from the waist down—the Outsider _knows_ he’d never focus otherwise—he thinks about it. “I’m afraid that you’ll tire of _me_ long before I tire of you.” Earlier, it felt like he was opening his chest and giving everything inside to Corvo. Apparently he left a few things behind. “I’m afraid of disappointing our friends. Especially Emily, when I actually start advising her. I’m afraid of Overseers and Hatters. I’m afraid of—” He thinks of the dark, filthy cell beneath Coldridge. The sound of his own nose breaking, and the prickle of that knife against his throat. “I’m afraid of nightmares like the kind you just had.” He pulls in a shaky gust of air. “Corvo, I will assuage your fears as many times as you need, but I may ask you to do the same for me, too.”

“I will. I always will.” Corvo tucks his lower lip into his mouth for a moment, and it emerges shining. Distracting.

“Tell me.” The Outsider kisses his forehead. “What is it?”

“…I _am_ afraid of how much younger than me you seem.” Corvo closes his eyes. “But not because of what the press will say. Because—look at me. We’ve got…maybe ten or fifteen more good years of _this_ —” He indicates their nakedness. And, presumably, all the things they did hours earlier. “—before my body really starts breaking down. And you—when you look _my_ age, you’ll be stuck with a withered old man. How can I do that to you?”

The Outsider tries to smile without teasing. “Would you rather we not be together at all because we’ll only get _some_ years of recklessly acrobatic sex?”

Corvo laughs; tension melts from his shoulders. His eyes shine in the firelight. “Not when you put it like that.”

“As much as I enjoyed that—and plan to further—a _lot_ —” The Outsider threads his fingers into Corvo’s hair, trying very hard not to tighten his grip. “Everything else is so much more important. No matter how old you’re lucky enough to become…Corvo, you can’t conceive of the amount of people I’ve watched age over the centuries. I’m no stranger to the way it changes them. Or the ways it leaves them exactly the same.” He dips his head, making sure Corvo’s eyes are on his. “Your age means nothing to me. You’d be just as beautiful with a crown of white hair—or no hair—”

“Oh, don’t,” Corvo mutters, but he’s still smiling.

“—as you are now. Whatever the challenges are, whatever changes—I’ll face it with you. Gladly. I have no plans of leaving you now that I have you. I’ll be here.”

Corvo breathes out slow and shuddering. “You can’t just…you can’t just _promise_ things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s—Void.” Plaintive eyes search his. “It scares the life out of me, tempting fate that way. I’ve never gotten to keep the things I love.”

The Outsider’s heart fractures. “Oh, Corvo.” He wishes dearly he could kiss Corvo—then remembers he’s allowed. So he tilts Corvo’s chin up and seals their mouths together. Sparks ricochet through his chest, for all it’s sweet and brief. “I know what you’ve lost,” the Outsider says, close enough that it’s almost a kiss. Foreheads touching. “Trusting fate enough to love again—it takes as much courage as the most frightening things you’ve faced. But you’ve taught me that fate is a myth. All the innumerable paths and possibilities I’ve seen since I entered the Void…this— _us_ —we were never part of them. Nor was escaping the Void and finding my way back to you. Or destroying the Abbey. But here we are.”

Corvo is clinging to the words as much as he is to the Outsider. “Here we are.”

“There _is_ no fate to tempt. We can only make the most of what we have, for as long as we can.” The Outsider has to haul in a breath. “I’m promising these things to you because I have to believe they _can_ be one of our possibilities.” He searches Corvo’s wide eyes. “But the fact that it’s out of my control—that I can’t know for sure, when all I’ve ever known is knowing…it scares the life out of me, too.” His smile is tremulous. “Yet I’m willing to try. Are you?”

“Yes.” It bursts from Corvo as though he’s been waiting to give it away. “Yes, I’m— _yes_. Of course I am.” He hauls the Outsider in closer against him, and before the Outsider can reply, Corvo’s mouth is on his. The Outsider’s heart skips frantically; he lets Corvo coax his mouth open, but meets Corvo there with a hopeful press of his tongue. Corvo’s hands roam across his back again, up his shoulder blades and down his sides.

“How,” Corvo says between kisses, “do you always—you just _know_ —you know exactly what I—”

“Because I know you. Just as you know me.”

“I hope so.” Corvo looks up at him, eyes bright. “Some things I'm still learning. But I know for certain that you’ve never gotten enough credit for how much you really give a damn.”

A fissure of pleasure shivers through the Outsider. “I don't know. I'd say my empathy is a…slightly more recent development.”

“It isn’t.” Corvo dismisses it so easily. “You visited me for fifteen years. You cared for your Marked.”

“‘Care’ and ‘curiosity’ aren’t the same—”

“I think they were, to the Void-version of you.” Corvo nuzzles at his nose. “You always appeared on my worst nights. When I needed you most. You Marked Emily, even though you had no reason apart from knowing me. You gave people power at their lowest points. You listened to Jess when she…” His voice breaks a little, but he plows resolutely ahead. “And now you’re...look what you’ve done for your district, because you know everyone deserves more than what this city can give them. Look at how you rush into danger because you’re determined not to stand by anymore if you can help.” Corvo traces a thumb along the scar crossing the Outsider’s ribs. “You’re a good man. You make me want to be just as good.”

The Outsider feels too hot for his own body. He’s certain his blush has spread to his ears. No one has _ever_...and anyway, Corvo is already—“Corvo, I...”

“I know,” says Corvo, and there’s the barest, warmest hint of a tease to it. “Hard to take a compliment, right.”

The Outsider manages a surprised laugh, and then Corvo is kissing him again. It goes on long, breathless moments. Corvo’s hands roam everywhere again, almost feverish in their need, inspiring rushes of goosebumps and gasping little half-moans that the Outsider hitches against Corvo’s mouth. Corvo's hands sink into the Outsider’s hair before they slip down to either side of the Outsider’s neck, his thumbs under the Outsider’s jaw, starting to tilt him up, their lips breaking apart—and then Corvo goes abruptly still.

Panting shakily, the Outsider pulls back to look at him. “What is it?”

“I was about to just. Kiss you here.” Corvo trails a thumb down the side of the Outsider’s throat, a touch so light that the Outsider shivers all over. Corvo’s eyes flicker back up, searching. “But I thought I should probably ask.”

His heart doesn’t have room in it for so much love. Corvo’s thoughtfulness dampens any fear, every thought of knives and twin blades wielded by hands he can’t control. “I—I think I’d like you to try.”

Corvo nods once, solemn. _He understands this, too_ , the Outsider thinks in a daze. _Of course he does._ Gently, with slow tenderness, Corvo tilts the Outsider’s jaw further up. He kisses the side of it. Then the thin skin beneath, his lips slack, his beard the slightest scratch. “All right?” he whispers, a rush of heat.

“Yes.” The Outsider closes his eyes, shivers again.

A slight brush, closer to the Outsider’s carotid artery. “Still?”

“Yes.” The Outsider’s pulse jumps frantically against Corvo’s mouth. He tries to breathe slowly, steadily, but Corvo’s lower lip tugs across the bulb of his throat, and heat licks at his insides. He can’t stop a needy whine through his clenched jaw.

“Yes?” Corvo whispers.

“ _Yes_.” The Outsider closes his eyes.

Corvo smiles against him, just above the hollow between the Outsider’s clavicles. He opens his mouth.

The Outsider arches into the heat, a moan spilling out of him when Corvo pulses his tongue there, a slow circle, a careful kiss. “ _Corvo—_ ”

Corvo pulls back immediately, but the Outsider wheezes a laugh and threads his hands into Corvo’s hair to tug him back. Corvo hums against him and does it a little more intently—a lush, hot pull of lips and tongue that coaxes the Outsider’s hips into a roll. It isn’t until he brushes up against Corvo’s abdomen that he realizes how hard he’s become. “ _Oh_ ,” he sighs as Corvo mouths at the junction of neck and shoulder, hot and slow, then further up, and he arches against Corvo. “That’s— _yes_ —”

Corvo’s hands fall to the Outsider’s back, down his shoulder blades, over his hips, where he tightens his grip, tugs upward. “Can you—?”

The Outsider puts weight back on his heels, and in the slack between them, Corvo whips the blankets away. Then he loops one arm around the Outsider’s lower back and looks up, his eyes brimming with heat and something that looks suspiciously like _mischief_.

Then his arm tightens, his thighs shift. He rolls them both over, and the Outsider finds himself flat on his back. Stunned, he laughs up at the dark canopy of the bed. And at Corvo, grinning down at him, settling in overtop of him for another kiss. It is exhilarating, for Corvo to use so much of that coiled power on him, for this. That it’s so effortless—

Corvo is already pulling away from the kiss to slowly—carefully—trail his lips along the Outsider’s neck again. He lingers there; the Outsider sinks his fingers deep into Corvo’s hair, panting, arching up against him, trying not to grind himself into the cut of Corvo’s hip. Then Corvo begins shuffling back on his knees.

The Outsider tries not to sulk. “Where are you going?”

Corvo casts a glance down between them, then back up, one brow quirked. Heat simmers in his gaze, so intense it makes the Outsider’s breath catch. “Not far.”

 _Oh_. Corvo wants—the Outsider twitches between them. He’s hard enough that he can feel his own heightened pulse along the length. He manages, “Then don’t let me keep you.”

Corvo’s crooked smile sends another lightning-burst of heat straight through him. He inches further down the bed.

The Outsider is—he feels exposed and vulnerable and terribly, wretchedly desperate as Corvo settles in between his spread thighs, elbows draped over them. The weight of him is such a comfort, until—until it’s just _incinerating_ , as the Outsider tries to hold Corvo’s low-lidded gaze and Corvo takes him in a strong, warm hand. The Outsider’s hips practically convulse up into Corvo's grip.

“All right?” asks Corvo, the words almost slurring together.

The Outsider nods; speech has left him entirely. It is obscene, looking at Corvo like this, another moment of unbearable intimacy that gets his hands shaking and his heart racing even faster; he wonders if Corvo can feel it in his fingertips or if his calluses—

Corvo circles his tongue once around the head and then swallows the Outsider down in one go.

Oh, fuck. Oh—he can’t—his entire world narrows to the curl of Corvo’s tongue, the vibrating rumble of Corvo’s deep, dark moan of satisfaction, the heels of Corvo’s hands now flat on the blades of his hips, holding him down as he wrenches helplessly, deliciously, against them. He can’t breathe, he can’t _think_ , he can’t handle this, it’s _so_ much, too much—

Corvo pulls off just enough to murmur, warm and close, “Stop trying to stay ahead of it. Breathe. Just let yourself feel it.” He takes him in again.

Until Corvo said it, the Outsider hadn’t realized how much he was, indeed, barely breathing—just keeping air in his chest, hovering at the top of his lungs with every gasp.

So he exhales all in a rush and lets himself dissolve into the heat of Corvo’s mouth. What meets him is a rising, rushing tide of pleasure, and he succumbs to it gladly, letting Corvo drag him beneath the surface and into the dark of that clever, talented, relentless mouth.

Corvo’s beard prickles against the soft skin of the Outsider’s thighs, quivering against Corvo’s face. The Outsider is glad for Corvo’s tight grip on his hips; he’s still attempting half-thrusts as Corvo sweeps his tongue around the head once more, then further down, then back up. His lips close against the ridge and then pull back, almost teasing and then _entirely_ teasing when he draws his tongue in a long, slow path across the slit.

“ _Corvo_ —” The Outsider doesn’t even realize he’s tightened his hands in Corvo’s hair until Corvo breathes out _hard_ , a rough, wrecked sound, and they both look up in surprise. There’s a hopeful little twist to the set of Corvo’s brows.

 _I never wanted him to have to ask_ , the Outsider remembers. His chest heaving, he licks his lips and lets his grip tighten a little harder against those soft strands. Gently, experimentally, ready to stop in an instant, he uses the leverage to pull Corvo back down.

Corvo’s eyes nearly roll back into his head; he goes immediately, willingly, taking the Outsider deep into his mouth again with a long, shuddering sigh, his tongue rubbing firmly. The Outsider gives him slack and Corvo works back up again, steady and slick and hot, letting the Outsider guide him, moaning every time the pressure against his hair changes.

The Outsider can barely watch. It’s entirely too devastating for him to endure and survive, bringing him to the brink so mortifyingly fast that his face goes even hotter. Before he can whimper a warning, Corvo takes a hand away from the Outsider’s hip and swipes two fingertips briefly—startlingly—along the wet length of him. Then Corvo reaches beneath the swell of the Outsider's balls, already drawn up tight, and Corvo’s fingertips brush carefully against—

“C- _Corvo!_ ” It doesn't even sound like him, too deep to be his own voice. Shockwaves of bliss radiate from Corvo’s touch and deep into his belly. It’s like before, the way the pleasure locks onto something and just _builds_ , tightening and rising and utterly out of his control, though Void, does he try. His hips are rolling, twisting, but Corvo’s fingers follow, a steady, slick stroke as his mouth continues working. “Corvo— _Corvo_ , I’m—I can’t—”

He half expects Corvo to pull off and finish him off with a hand, but Corvo only takes him deeper. Breathless with disbelief, the Outsider arches into Corvo’s mouth and lets himself fall.

He’s not sure who cries out more loudly. His entire body pulls taut and trembling, his calves clamped hard against Corvo’s warm sides, toes curling, his head tipped back, his orgasm wrenching every last bit of pleasure from him. Corvo swallows him down, throat working, his brown eyes bleary with bliss until at last, at _last_ , the Outsider collapses back to the blankets, gasping. He feels completely wrung out—delightfully so. He wants to melt into the mattress.

But not by himself. “Come here.” The Outsider tugs at Corvo’s hair—no heat in it this time, though Corvo’s eyes still flash—and Corvo rises, climbing back up overtop him. “Corvo—”

Corvo kisses him, and the taste of himself in Corvo’s mouth is strange, _different,_ but the Outsider doesn’t think he minds. “Let me,” he pants when Corvo presses their foreheads together, “Void, let me do that for you.” He reaches between them, searching for where he knows Corvo is hanging hard and heavy, but Corvo catches his hand and pulls it up, folded, so he can kiss the Outsider’s knuckles.

“That was enough for me,” Corvo murmurs. He sounds drowsily sated. “I just—wanted to do it for you. I didn’t expect anything in return.”

“I know, but…”

“If you _want_ to do something,” says Corvo, brushing hair off the Outsider’s forehead, “I’ll take you up on that offer you made earlier. To—hold me. If you still want.”

The Outsider cradles Corvo’s face in his hands. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to this—how full his heart feels, now that he can love this man freely. “I’d be glad to.”

They face the fireplace, laid out on their left sides. The Outsider tucks an arm beneath Corvo’s neck and loops his other arm around Corvo’s waist, pulling them flush together. It puts his nose in Corvo’s hair, his lips against the back of Corvo’s neck. Their legs tangle together. “Does this work?” the Outsider whispers.

Corvo just wriggles deeper into his arms and laces their fingers together. “It’s perfect.”

The Outsider smiles into the curve of Corvo’s neck. Corvo is asleep in moments, and the Outsider follows soon after.

*

*

*

When the gray light through the windows begins to turn pale, and then paler still, Corvo manages to slip out of bed without waking the Outsider.

He dresses quickly, finger-combs his hair. All through it, he can’t take his eyes away from the bed. In his sleep, as he is awake, the Outsider is beautiful. The fan of dark lashes on his pale skin, his hair a disheveled mess, the rise and dip of muscles in the soft morning light. He’s so lovely that Corvo aches. Leaving him for even a few minutes feels almost unbearable.

But Corvo forces himself to turn to his desk, where he quickly scribbles a note: _Back in five._ He leaves it in the indent of his pillow. Perhaps it’s ridiculous, but he knows damn well that he himself would worry if he woke up alone after…everything that happened that last night. Perhaps the Outsider would, too.

Satisfied, he slips into the hall and makes his way down through the Tower.

He hears the kitchens before he gets there; the place is wall to wall with staff orchestrating the controlled mayhem, loudly and cheerily calling back and forth to one another. The whole crew is on duty to prepare for the early arrival of more members of Parliament and other high-ranking guests involved in Abbey cleanup—engagements where the Tower will be expected to provide a full breakfast.

Corvo gracefully sidesteps the chaos, greeting people as he goes; some call good mornings back to him if they’ve got attention to spare. He picks his way to one corner of the room, near the door that lets out to the kitchen gardens.

It’s a cushioned nook with a small dining table where he and Emily often sit together and take their meals when there’s no grand occasion. This morning, Emily and Tev are both there, chatting from opposite sides of the table—which is loaded with scones and fruits and other vittles.

Corvo draws closer, his heart light, genuinely eager to say hello. Emily is brightly awake and dressed for diplomacy, resplendent in crisp white and indigo, her hair pinned up in one perfect twist. Tev still looks a little sleep-drowsy in his clothes from the night before, but they’re chatting pleasantly enough.

“Oi, morning!” Tev sees Corvo first. “I thought you had today off!”

“I’m awake.” Corvo shrugs. “And hungry. I thought I’d—what.”

Emily is staring at him, her eyes wide. Delighted.

His face is heating. “ _What_.”

She waves him closer. Grumbling, he goes, and Emily stands. She reaches for his collar and tugs it a little higher, a little closer to his neck, clearly holding back laughter. She says, “Still trying to create scandals before breakfast, I see.”

“I—” And Corvo remembers, with another flare of heat, the Outsider’s clever mouth against his neck last night. The pull of lips and teeth. Surprised, mortified, he grabs at his collar and clamps it shut even tighter against his neck. His back is to the rest of the staff, still too noisy and busy to spare even half an ear for this conversation, but how many _saw_ —“Oh, by the _Void_ , I—”

“It’s not _that_ obvious,” Tev says.

Emily drops back into her seat, grinning “Unless you knew to look for something like it.”

Corvo splutters, “ _What does that even—_ ”

“Please,” says Emily, “why _else_ would you have left the terrace with him? And besides, we’ve all been waiting for it to happen for a while now. I can’t believe it hasn’t—”

“You’ve been _what?_ ” It’s exactly like last night, wishing he could sink through the balcony and into the street below. Maybe deeper, this time. A sub-basement. The riverbed itself. “ _All_ of you?”

“Not _all_ of us,” Emily says, then frowns. “Well. Maybe all of us. But me and Tev and Billie are the only ones who—oh. _Damn it._ ”

“That’s right,” Tev says to her, smirking. “You’ll forgive me, but I’m going to savor saying this.” He props an elbow on the table and turns his hand palm-up, waggling his fingers. “Cough it up, your Highness.”

Grumbling, Emily reaches into the small coin purse at her belt. Two five-pieces clink in her hand; she hands them over. “I was _certain_.”

“This is why you bet on the Outsider,” says Tev, pocketing the coins. “He’s been a little instigator as long as I’ve known him. It had to be sooner rather than later.”

“Now hold on just a _minute_.” Corvo draws out the chair between them and sits, hard. Somehow he manages not to wince. He leans forward, arms on the table, hands splayed, and hisses, “You two had a _bet going?_ ”

“And Billie,” Emily says. “I owe her, too.”

Corvo thinks, _I am too damn old for this,_ then remembers that compared to the man a few floors above him, still asleep Corvo's bed, he’s still positively youthful. He wants to be angry, but…after the last twelve hours, he doesn’t have it in him. Emotional exhaustion, though? There’s still plenty of space for that. He grumbles, “How did you even know to place bets at all?”

Emily looks at him with something like pity. “You two weren’t exactly subtle.”

Corvo grips his own temples. “What are you talking about.”

“Outsider’s—” Tev reconsiders. “—lovely green eyes. You really didn’t know.”

“Corvo.” Emily is trying not to laugh. “ _Father_. The two of you were mooning over each other so often, I thought you were already involved.”

“Yeah,” adds Tev. “The way he looks at you, when he thinks your attention’s drawn—Void, he was doing it all the way back at the ring that night.”

“One of you could’ve said something. I would’ve welcomed the chance to actually _do_ something about this. Much earlier.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” says Emily, raising a delicate teacup for a sip. “You would’ve panicked and overthought it, and it would’ve taken even longer.”

She’s probably right about that, but she doesn’t need to know it. “Well, then,” Corvo mutters. “I take it you approve.”

Emily’s smile warms. “With all my heart.”

“And me,” says Tev, gesturing with a wedge of scone. “For what that’s worth.”

“It’s worth plenty.”

“Are you going to let people know?” Emily asks.

Corvo resists the urge to protest that apparently everyone _already_ knows. “Eventually. We’ll decide when, but. We don’t want it to keep it hidden forever.” _We,_ he thinks. _Us._ It’s strange to think of them as a team. But then, Corvo supposes they already are. They _have been_. From the moment they stood shoulder to shoulder in that burning tavern, facing down a brace of angry Hatters.

“The press will love that,” says Emily, delighted. “You’ll be even more alluring, attracting such a handsome young man.”

Corvo fights back a rush of fear, reminding himself that he and the Outsider only just talked about this a few hours ago. “It doesn’t bother you? That they’ll probably turn it into a scandal?”

“They’d find something to make into a scandal no matter who you chose. An apparent age difference is relatively low-stakes. And they can’t even call the Outsider money-hungry, since he’s got plenty of capital of his own.”

“Not _that_ much,” Tev points out. “Well—all right, ‘much’ is relative. He’d still be nobility for the rest of his days, by any other measure. But it’s far less than he started with. He’s been giving it away.”

Corvo blinks, suddenly reminded of a frantic, whispered conversation back at the Office of the High Overseer. _My accounts have been accumulating interest as long as banks have existed._ “Giving it away?”

“Oh, yeah. Ever since he got to Dunwall.”

“I didn’t know that,” says Emily, softly fond. “He doesn’t exactly boast, does he.”

Corvo wants to march directly upstairs, crawl back into bed, and pull the Outsider into his arms. “He does not.”

“At any rate.” Emily smiles at Corvo again. “Make it public when you need to. Whatever the press have to say, it’s worth it if I get to see you happy.”

Something unclenches from around Corvo’s heart. He hadn’t realized how much Emily’s approval would mean to him, but now that he has it—

“I’m not calling him _father_ , though,” she adds, grimacing. “I don’t care how old he is. Or how married you two are.”

Tev sits back, laughing.

Corvo shakes his head, fighting a smile as well as more heat rising to his face. He stands again. “I don’t have to listen to this,” he says, hoping they can hear the tease. “I’ve got the day off.”

“Go enjoy it, then,” says Emily—and gestures at her own collar to indicate Corvo’s. "Just—careful with that, if you want to control when the news gets out."

Grumbling, Corvo tugs his collar closer to his neck once more and carefully, so as not to disturb it, throws together a tray of breakfast items he can take back upstairs.

The Outsider is awake when Corvo gets back, and Corvo’s heart does a pleasant little flip-flop; the Outsider looks so _cozy_. He’s apparently just sat up, the blankets pooled at his hips, his bare chest and strong shoulders pale and beautiful in the morning light. He’s still blinking sleepily, a little squintingly, but he smiles. Corvo’s note is in his hand. “Hi,” he says. “Why are you wearing so many clothes?”

Corvo snorts. “I was going to say avoiding a scandal, but…” He sets the tray down on the desk. “I think I’ve already caused one.”

“At last. It’s finally happened.” The Outsider is grinning broadly. “How?”

Corvo drops onto the edge of the bed and pulls his collar aside.

“Oh.” A blush rises in the Outsider’s cheeks, and it’s so endearing that Corvo’s pulse jumps. “I didn’t even realize I...”

“Don’t apologize.” Corvo sighs. “Apparently everyone knew even without the evidence.”

The Outsider’s eyes widen. “Everyone?”

While Corvo explains, the Outsider does his best to divest Corvo of most of his clothes, alternately laughing and blushing. Down to his smallclothes, Corvo finally pulls himself away long enough to fetch a long silk robe out of his wardrobe, then finds another buried at the back. Enrobed, they breakfast together, their chairs close at Corvo’s desk.

It’s just like the nights they worked together, apart from the sunlight streaming through the windows. Their dialogue picks back up like it never stopped, except this time, Corvo lets his gaze linger where it wants: the Outsider’s sleep-mussed hair. The rosy-pink curve of his lower lip. The elegance in his hands as he lifts a teacup or gesticulates while he speaks.

 _We have the whole day ahead of us_ , Corvo thinks, downright giddy about it.

The Outsider may need to get back to his district—the tavern, at least—after days of being away, but perhaps he wouldn’t mind if Corvo tagged along. Or the Outsider can take care of his business and reunite with Corvo later, and Corvo could take the day to just…do something on his own.

It sounds delightful. He thinks he might like a long walk along one of the river paths; the sun is out, and it shouldn’t be too cold. Or perhaps he and Billie could find something to do—like inquire about a new skiff.

Corvo thinks he could get used to this, this feeling of promise and possibility. A day where _he_ gets to decide what happens next, not Emily’s schedule, or whichever visiting dignitary comes calling. He really will need to look into putting more Royal Protectors on the roster. He loves his job—of course he does—but Billie was right. Everybody _does_ need time off.

Whatever happens today, Corvo is certain the Outsider will want to be with him at the end of it.

And that’s more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> corvo’s head is completely empty of anything except [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CPsWGut8SeM) right now.
> 
> next time on AWIBA: catharsis, rooftops, even more filth!!!!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HIIII. 
> 
> shit is wild but these two dorkwads are in love!
> 
>  **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER**  
>  \- momentary review of past trauma  
> \- boning boney bonetown (nothin you havent seen before)  
> \- feelings  
> \- more abuse of the latin language, jesus im sorry you didnt die for this  
>    
> (god thank you, all of you, for the continued yellies and nice words and just generally making me clutch my phone to my heart because of your kind response, i can't believe there's only the epilogue left, WHAT, _WHAT_. AHHHH. thank you i love you have a splendid weekend and if you live in georgia USA pls make sure you request your ballot for the january runoff so we can flip that senate OKAY GOOD TALK)
> 
> <3

Dunwall is cold and crisp and clear tonight, blanketed in deep and soft blue. The moon silvers every rising crest of the Wrenhaven as it flows out toward the sea. The shift and sparkle is mesmerizing from so close—that is, right above it, where Corvo and the Outsider peer over the railing halfway across Kaldwin’s Bridge.

It’s quiet this late, just after ten o’clock. Only a little foot traffic, and then few and far between. No one will give Corvo or the Outsider a second glance, paused as they are to look out over the water. Shoulder to shoulder, forearm aligned to forearm.

“It’s beautiful,” says the Outsider, his eyes shining as he takes in the view—the river, the city, Dunwall Tower in the distance. “I can see why you picked this spot.”

 _He’s seen so much of this city’s ugliness,_ thinks Corvo, _and still, he finds beauty in it._ “Well. I picked the spot because the river is deep here—but I don’t mind the view.”

“Can’t even see Coldridge.”

Corvo smiles. “Another plus.” He reaches deep into his coat pocket and draws out a jingling handful of hardware—nuts and bolts and washers. The ones he twisted out of the interrogation chair just before he and the Outsider fled Coldridge. Just over a week ago, at this point. As he holds up the handful, the metal glitters in the moonlight. He turns to the Outsider. “Here. Take some of these.”

The Outsider looks abashed. “Corvo, I can’t—”

“It’s your pain, too.” Corvo woke the other night to find the Outsider propped up on one arm, catching his breath, his eyes haunted. One day or six months, Coldridge leaves scars all the same. “Do it with me.” Corvo cant keep the pleading note from his voice. “I’m tired of doing things on my own.”

The Outsider opens his palm.

Relieved, Corvo tips some of the bolts into it, then faces the river.

All at once he feels like a fool. “Is this ridiculous?”

“Not at all.” The Outsider thumbs at the little pile. “In fact, in the course of human history, I’d call this a common ritual.”

“Throwing a bunch of screws into a river?”

“Don’t be obtuse,” says the Outsider, smirking, elbowing Corvo. He keeps them close, keeps their arms touching. “I mean humanity has always fashioned representations of their pain to burn or tear up or cast into rivers. I think they were onto something.”

“So it works.”

“It certainly doesn’t hurt.” He looks up at Corvo. His smirk has faded to something soft and encouraging. “Would you like to go first?”

“Yeah. Just—need a second.” Corvo grips the palmful of metal, lets it prickle into life and heart and head lines. He breathes in deep and slow, and closes his eyes.

He thinks of razors. Knives. Iron so hot that it burned long before it reached his skin. Agony so intense it turned him senseless, so consuming that he disappeared into it. Days in that cell with Jess’ blood still on his hands. Filth and fleas and vermin and a numbness in his heart that took months to fade, anger rising in its wake, despair hot on anger’s heels. Sewers and plague and rats and rubbish. An attic room with a view of the Tower. _You cannot save her_. Pulling that mask over his face again and again, barely questioning his orders because at least _those_ , he could carry out; those, he could finish without blood on his hands. Betrayal he should’ve seen coming, dizzy sickness in his veins, the stench of the Flooded District. Emily, motherless and so, so small, Corvo’s only lodestar. Years and years and years of flinging himself so deeply into his job that he’s only just now starting to climb out.

But he _is_ climbing out.

Just as slowly, Corvo releases that same breath. He calls to mind Emily jumping into his arms at the lighthouse on Kingsparrow Island. The first time she ever knocked him on his ass when they sparred. All the times she’s asked him for advice, how closely she listened—even if she went her own way in the end. Her waiting for him when that marble melted away, so eager to tell him she’d taken everything back the same way he did: patiently, bloodlessly.

Corvo thinks of wearing the rug thin in his chambers as he danced through his sword forms, only to look up and into smug black eyes, a delighted smirk from a sensual mouth. _Hello, Corvo_. He remembers looking into those same eyes in the middle of that shootout, except they were green-gray instead of black, wide and captivating. His friends, his _family_ , all coming together to free the Outsider from Coldridge so he wouldn’t have to do it alone.

Corvo thinks of _I know you don’t belong to him_ and _cor meum tuum est_ and _did you think I don’t know this about you?_ and _te amo, Corvo_.

He opens his eyes. He takes a step back, his eyes on the river, on the horizon. Then he winds up, steps into the throw, and hurls the bolts far over the railing.

They catch moonlight as they fall, flashing before they speckle the water and disappear.

He didn’t expect to feel much different, but…he _does_. His whole body does. There’s a strange lightness in his heart, as though a weight really has been lifted off his chest.

“I think it must have worked,” says the Outsider.

“Yeah? How can you tell?”

“The size of your smile.”

Corvo realizes with a start that he’s _beaming_. And while his instincts tell him to fight it back…why should he? He lets his smile grow. “Let’s see if it works the same for you.”

“All right.” The Outsider weighs the bolts in his palm, and the solemn way his brows come together as he studies the handful—Corvo wonders if he must be doing the same thing: gauging what, exactly, needs to be thrown out. What to keep. The Outsider looks up, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight as he studies the river. He nods once, almost to himself. Then he pitches the whole handful and watches them fall.

The moment they hit the water, he reaches for Corvo. Slides a hand beneath Corvo’s coat and to the small of his back, pulls him in close. Tilts his chin up hopefully.

Corvo dips his head and closes the scant distance between them.

Void, he loves this. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it, someone reaching for him so thoughtlessly. Or _him_ doing the reaching, finding a hand opening for his and affection just waiting for him.

And this kiss is sweet. Sweet and soft. It feels like letting go. It feels like soaring. Diving from the Clocktower and trusting the Mark to catch him, flinging him into his next adventure.

The Outsider was so _eager_ the first time they did this. He threw himself into every kiss with a kind of unreserved, earnest excitement that would mortify Corvo from anyone else. But from the Outsider, it’s just…lovely. His earnestness hasn't flagged since then, but his expertise is growing.

And Void, but it’s been days since they’ve had the time and energy to do much besides fall asleep together, the Outsider stumbling through Corvo’s window after midnight, streaming apologies for his lateness. They’ve slept and worked and slept, and they haven’t had time to let things carry on—much as they want to.

Now they’ve got time. And Corvo _wants_. He lifts a hand to the Outsider’s jaw, angles him up a little so that Corvo can delve further into—

Someone wolf-whistles.

They break apart; a cluster of passers-by are crossing the other side of the bridge—drunk, from the whoops and cheers; civilians, from the lack of uniforms or jaunty hats.

“You have your bonecharm, don’t you,” the Outsider murmurs, fighting laughter. "The five-year—?"

“Of course.” Corvo’s face burns hot, but he’s smiling, too—broader, when he gives an indulging wave, and the passing group laughs and hollers louder.

He hasn’t been caught canoodling in public in—Void, decades. Certainly not since he left Serkonos. _Ridiculous_ , he thinks, but he can’t bring himself to be angry about it. He _feels_ young. Young and giddy. “Probably good that they stopped us before we got carried away.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting carried away.”

“Neither would I. But there’s a place I wanted to show you first, while we’re out. If you’re up for it.”

“Certainly.” The Outsider kisses him one more time, a quick, smiling peck. “Lead on.”

*

*

*

They make their way through the city—generally upward, and not just because of the buildings they scale.

It is such a thrill, running roofs with Corvo. He moves so effortlessly, so light on his feet and confident in his route. A joy to watch. The Outsider can keep up, but he isn’t yet as graceful. It suits him just fine; he doesn’t need to watch himself. 

At last, Corvo climbs onto a walled-in roof and turns back to offer a hand down to the Outsider. Who takes it, glad for any excuse to touch. From the shine in Corvo’s eyes, it seems like he was looking for an excuse, too. Corvo’s hand is so _strong_ , calluses against calluses, hauling the Outsider easily upward.

Corvo leads them across the flat roof, past an access door and vents and generators. A brick block topped with a row of chimneys stands in their way, and Corvo steers them to one side so they can see around it.

Despite the general incline of their trek, it’s still a surprise when suddenly all of Dunwall slopes down before them, a long stretch of glowing windows and icewhite streetlights from here to the river and the banks on the other side. The moon hangs nearly at eye level.

The Outsider seen plenty of stunning views since he first stepped into the harbor months ago. Some of those views, he even saw with Corvo. This one, however—nothing else has shown him a vista this wide. Dunwall Tower seems far beneath them; even the Clocktower appears diminished, though they’re nearly at eye level with it, too, as distant as it is. Out on the river, a barge floats slowly downstream, dreamily miniature from their vantage.

It’s magnificent, utterly. But when the Outsider turns to Corvo, ready to tell him as much, Corvo is already looking at him.

His face heats, even now. Even knowing how Corvo feels about him, knowing his every last hope is reciprocated.

They sit on the ledge in front of the chimney block, leaning back against the bricks, legs dangling over the edge. Corvo drapes an arm around the Outsider’s shoulders, and the Outsider burrows in closer, insinuates a hand between Corvo’s coat and shirt where it’s warm and cozy.

They’re above a block with a few taverns at the other end. The Outsider can hear distant conversation, and people calling to each other in the street below. The night breeze buffets his ears, bringing with it the sound of a cheery fiddle from one of the taverns.

“I don’t know if it’s something you saw,” says Corvo, quiet and content. “But I used to come up here often.” Before he had the Outsider’s Mark, he means.

“I knew after the fact. Once I looked a little more closely.” The Outsider remembers peering into Corvo’s past, fascinated at how Corvo found so much joy in the solitude of rooftops at night. Carving out his own little domain above the city seemed to ease Corvo’s homesickness—especially coming all the way up here. It let him establish a lay of the land and begin to understand Dunwall’s people. Not so different from what the Outsider did upon his own arrival in Dunwall. The Outsider adds, “But it’s been years since you’ve come to this spot.”

“Well. Been awhile since I was homesick.”

Concerned, the Outsider gathers a handful of Corvo’s shirt. “Are you homesick now?”

“Not quite. I’ve just been thinking about it.” Corvo’s throat bobs. “You really want to go back to Serkonos with me?”

“Of course I do. I can’t wait.”

“It’s just. Won’t it be dull for you? You’ve seen it before.”

“Not with you, through your eyes. And not as someone actually experiencing it instead of just watching it.”

“Is it that different?”

“You’d be surprised. From the Void, I could walk the world, but I couldn’t really…interact with it. I was cut off from so much. No sense of taste or smell. I couldn’t really feel the things I touched. Or the weather.” He blows out a breath, watching it fog before them. When he glances up at Corvo, Corvo is studying him again with a growing smile. “What is it?”

“The rain,” Corvo says. “The night we got caught in that downpour, on the way back from spying on Gideon. You were—you enjoyed it.”

“I did.” The Outsider’s face heats; he can feel it out to his ears. “I felt like a fool when I realized you’d caught me.”

“I didn’t think you were a fool. I actually—I wanted to take you into my arms.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Corvo presses his mouth into the Outsider’s hair. “I’ve wondered if the Void was like that. Cutting you off from—well. Things I take for granted, like rain. So watching you get to experience it just…hurt, in a good way.” He takes the Outsider’s hand at his side and draws it up, over his heart. “Here.”

“Well.” The Outsider’s voice rasps; he clears his throat. “You’ll get the chance to see it again, I expect. There’s still plenty I haven’t experienced. Like the beach. Or sunshine, for more than a single day at a time.”

Corvo huffs a laugh. “Could say that again.”

The Outsider smiles. “So. Yes, I’m looking forward to Serkonos.”

“And that cult still being there doesn’t bother you?”

“The Eyeless won’t be in the beach districts. They barely leave Shindaerey Peak. And besides, with Daud altering their memories—I’m confident we have nothing to fear.”

“Then we’ll get planning.” The smile in Corvo’s voice is evident. “Probably sometime after I secure a roster of other Royal Protectors. And your advisor role goes public, I imagine.”

“I imagine. How _has_ that been going? Finding candidates?”

“Slowly, but we’ve only just started. We’re interviewing someone tomorrow, actually.” Corvo sighs. “Alexi would have been ideal. If she was still alive, you and I could’ve booked a ship already.”

The Outsider decides not to tell Corvo that the role of Royal Protector was in plenty of futures he saw for Alexi. No point, with her gone and her futures with her. “I wish it could have worked out.”

“So do I.” Four stories beneath them, two drunks stumble past, singing a sailor’s shanty as loud as they can. The Outsider snorts when one of them goes startlingly off-key. “What about you,” says Corvo. “You work out a backstory yet?”

The Outsider smiles up at him. “It’s coming together.”

“Still won’t tell me?”

“Not until it’s finished.”

Corvo rolls his eyes in fond exasperation. “I can help.”

“That is _exactly_ why it’s a secret. I won’t have the crown fabricating anything for me.”

“I’m not the crown.”

It’s the Outsider’s turn for a fond roll of his eyes. “Corvo, you are absolutely the crown.”

“….all right, so maybe I’m the crown. I still want to help.”

“You _are_ helping. Just by caring about it. I promise this isn’t just me being stubborn—you know I’m trying to accept your help more often. And you are, mine.” They’ve been working on it, in the small ways they’ve found in the last week.

“I do know.”

“I _want_ your help,” the Outsider says. “If I could accept it in good conscience, I would. But when the story gets traced—and it will—I’ll only be able to sleep at night if there’s no chance at all you could be implicated. No matter how small.” Corvo’s hand still rests atop the Outsider’s, over Corvo’s heart, so the Outsider laces their fingers together. “Let me protect you, for once. I have plenty of favors I can cash in. And cash, that I can cash in.”

“Tev told me you’ve given a lot of it away.”

The Outsider knows his face is pink again. “I have.”

“You’re embarrassed about it?”

“One tries not to speak up their own philanthropy.”

“Maybe not.” Corvo’s voice is warm. “But I’m curious about it, if you’d ever want to share.”

 _You’re curious about everything._ “I could be convinced. At any rate, I have enough for bribes that will authenticate my story. But I can’t do anything about _that_ until I have a name.”

“And how’s that going?”

“I’m getting closer. I have a list.” The Outsider adds and takes away from it every day. “It’s...Void. It's hard to narrow them down.”

“I’d offer help there,” says Corvo, “but I think that's something you _should_ do on your own.”

“I agree. I only wish it were easier.”

“You know I’m going to love whatever you choose.”

“I hope so. I intend to inspire you to say it as often as I can.”

Corvo hums a noise that vibrates in his chest. “Going to hold you to that.”

Heat chases along the Outsider’s nerves. “I hope you will.”

Down in the street, someone laughs. His gaze drawn, the Outsider watches as a couple pulls each other into the alleyway across from his and Corvo’s vantage point—where they begin to kiss. Enthusiastically. One of them breaks off just to hoot another delighted laugh, and the other pulls them back in.

“Think they’ve got the right idea,” Corvo murmurs.

The Outsider tilts back up to look at him just as Corvo leans in.

It feels as though they pick up where they left off at Kaldwin’s Bridge. Corvo leads them both; the Outsider lets him, pleased to part his lips for Corvo’s tongue, sighing in relief as Corvo works his way in—slow, sweet, unhurried. The Outsider has to catch his breath, trying to give as good as he gets, letting his hand slide up Corvo’s chest, then under his collar, then up into his hair. Which sends a subtle little shiver through Corvo’s body, and makes the Outsider smile into the kiss. He uses the leverage to pull Corvo closer.

But he wants more. He wants—the thought of it nearly makes him moan into Corvo’s mouth. They have _time_ tonight. They can do what he wants, if he asks for it.

He eases back, letting his hand fall back to Corvo’s shirt but keeping their foreheads together. “Corvo?”

“Yes.” Corvo chases his lips, a scant brush.

“Let’s go back to the Tower.”

Corvo’s eyes flash with heat. “Have something in mind?”

“I do.” The Outsider finds himself gulping. This should be easy to say; he _knows_ Corvo wants to do it with him. For him. And still, the words barely make it off his tongue: “There’s something I—that I asked for. The first time that we—last week.”

Corvo goes still except for one brow, which begins a hopeful rise.

“I,” says the Outsider, barely able to look at him, “I want you to. To be inside me. If that’s—if you like. If you—”

Corvo kisses him again, a brief but searing press, and when he says, “Let’s go,” it brushes hot over the Outsider’s lips.

***

Oh, Void.

This is— _oh_. This is nothing and everything like the Outsider imagined. A little strange, but mostly just _good_ , the astonishing intimacy bringing heat to his face and his neck; he knows he’s gone patchy-pink from his ears to his chest, but can’t bring himself to care. Corvo works him open slowly, patiently. The Outsider hangs onto Corvo’s neck and tries not to shake completely apart. He’s straddling Corvo’s thighs, all that muscle solid as stone beneath him.

Corvo is staring up at him with devastation in his eyes, almost _gratitude_. Hints of disbelief, even now. The Outsider tries to keep their eyes locked, but it’s nearly impossible; his concentration is divided between rocking back against Corvo’s fingertips and rutting forward against Corvo’s stomach, and trying not to do either—without success. The hard length of him keeps brushing the hard length of Corvo. Smooth, brief tugs of pleasure, only enough to make him crave even more.

The Outsider gasps when Corvo slips a second finger inside; Corvo begins to withdraw, so the Outsider quickly adds, “It’s fine, it’s—s-stay there, I can— _oh_.” Like the first finger, it’s a tight fit, a stinging pressure, but as he gives into it, a shiver of pleasure rises in its place. His hands clench taut and tight in Corvo’s hair, warmth suffusing every last inch of him. Corvo works slowly, smoothly, until the Outsider is pushing back against him, murmuring, “Please, Corvo—please, I need—” and Corvo adds a third finger and it begins again. Sting. Shiver. Taut. Warmth.

“Void, look at you.” Corvo is just as short of breath. “You’re so beautiful.”

The Outsider blinks at Corvo, who's all heavy-lidded bliss, a crooked twist to his faint smile. His hair is tousled senseless from the Outsider’s hands. Impossibly broad shoulders. Shadowed dips of scars. “You only say so because you—can’t see your _sel_ — _nnh_.”

“Too much?” Corvo’s brows twist in concern, his hand stilling.

“No—no, it’s good, don’t stop—” The Outsider can feel sweat starting to gather at the back of his neck, swept away when Corvo’s free hand settles there. He manages half a laugh. “Just don’t stop.”

Corvo is already moving his fingers again. Slow thrusts. Deep. “All right.” Corvo kisses him, a light brush that still gets the Outsider’s hips jerking forward, his cock driving against the muscles of Corvo’s stomach, and Corvo’s fingers—

—press against a spot that makes the Outsider arch almost right up out of Corvo’s arms. The breath he was drawing gets caught in his lungs; the pleasure he was chasing breaks over him like water, igniting him from the inside out.

“Oh,” Corvo murmurs, eyes flashing with wonder. “Here?” His fingers curl, rubbing, chasing that same spot, and _fuck_ , there it is again, that burst of heat and light, forcing a whimper out of the Outsider that sounds so desperately needy that his toes curl in mortification.

“Tease,” the Outsider pants. “You are so—”

“You did the same to me.” Corvo nips at his lower lip. “It’s only fair, I think.”

“Is that what you— _oh_.” This noise is darker, from deep in his chest, and a gasp follows; his hips practically rise out of Corvo’s lap, the pleasure relentless and inescapable, starting to fold in on itself like molten steel—“Corvo, I th-think you’d better—” He _whimpers_ as Corvo’s fingers twist. “—I’m going to—”

“I can still fuck you if you come,” murmurs Corvo, and the Outsider nearly _does_ , gasps as heat surges low and tight within him—but Corvo withdraws, his eyes somehow teasing and desperate at the same time. It’s an easy glide, slick and wonderful and—and _ready_. The Outsider’s heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his ears. He feels dizzy and it’s delicious; leaning into Corvo gives him everything he needs. Especially when Corvo kisses him, open and warm. “How do you want to do this?” Corvo murmurs.

“Here,” says the Outsider, and shivers as he hears Corvo open the vial of oil again. “Just like this. I can—” He lifts himself off Corvo’s thighs, gets up onto his knees, and reaches for Corvo.

But Corvo murmurs, “Let me,” and steadies the Outsider with an arm around his waist. The heat, the strength in his grip—the Outsider whines as fluid slides down his cock, so eager to be touched.

Then blunt heat presses against his entrance, slipping in oil until it catches just snug enough to stay, and Corvo tilts their foreheads together. “Breathe, Outsider. You’re in control, all right. Go at your own pace.”

The Outsider nods frantically, kisses Corvo in a brief cling of lips. He lets himself sink, slowly—

“ _Corv—_ ” And then it’s lost in a moan, loud and endless, and he spares half a thought for _by the Void, I’m glad for that anti-eavesdropping bonecharm_ , and then his hips seal against Corvo’s and Corvo is swearing through his clenched jaw, his hands sweeping back along the Outsider’s ribs, then around to his back to seal against his shoulder blades and pull the two of them firmly together. Corvo’s chest heaving, his biceps _absurd_ from this angle, the curve of his muscles; the Outsider can’t _breathe_ , it’s so impossibly good, it’s so much—

“ _Outsider_ ,” Corvo manages. He looks stunned. Almost incredulous, his eyes searching the Outsider’s. Softly, almost soundlessly, Corvo whispers, “ _Te amo_.”

A sob tears out of the Outsider’s throat before he can think to stop it. It feels like his heart is trying to leave his ribcage and jump into Corvo’s hands. He would do it, if Corvo asked. Anything. Everything. His eyes are prickling. “ _Te amo_ ,” he breathes. “Corvo, _mi cara, ego semper amare—_ “ Void, he hasn’t even moved yet; he wants to feel that rush again, he wants—

He gets up to his shaking knees, the slide of it so good he _whimpers_ ; why can he not control a _single sound_ his mouth makes—but he works his hips back down and pleasure bursts up again, consuming. He feels like stars have caught in his chest, expanding and burning bright. He feels full, stretched, so absolutely, unbelievably, _beautifully_ —

*

*

*

—exquisite. So tight and hot and grasping that Corvo can’t bear it, the Outsider so beautiful like this that he almost hurts to look at. Corvo looks at him anyway. Drinks in the sight, sears it into his memory and into his heart. He’s going to ask what the Void those Pandyssian words were as soon as he can string together any thoughts that aren’t just _want_ and _need_ and _I love him I love him I love him._

For now—fuck, it’s been so long, _so_ long, since Corvo had anyone like this. His arms are full of the Outsider and he can’t stop _touching_ , craving the feel of smooth, pale skin, needing the connection like _air_ , like he’ll stop breathing unless he palms as much as he can reach. He’s going to tip into those green-gray eyes and never come back, and he can’t bring himself to care.

But the Outsider hasn’t managed a third stroke. Corvo kisses his cheek, the edge of his jaw, the barely-there scar from his split lip. Keeping them close. Corvo whispers, “All right?”

“Yes.” The Outsider’s forehead grinds into his. “But I—I can’t—” He starts to rise again, but his legs shake and then give out.

“Let me.” Corvo cups his hands beneath the Outsider’s thighs, powerful muscles trembling in his grip. It’s unreal, the trust that’s been laid in his lap. “I’ve got it. I’ve got you.” He slides his touch further back, kneads gently just for the thrill of it, and then lifts the Outsider and eases him back down.

The Outsider stifles a shout in Corvo’s neck; Corvo’s heart leaps and he buries his mouth in the Outsider’s hair. “Yes?”

“ _Yes_.” The word is a long, tormented stretch. Obscene. “Corvo—”

Corvo’s heart leaps again; something about the way the Outsider says his name always has a hushed reverence to it, a worship that Corvo never—he lifts again.

“ _Oh,_ ” slurs the Outsider, hot at the junction of neck and shoulder, “when you—how are you so— _strong—”_

Corvo’s insides go sweetly molten; the Outsider truly seems to _enjoy_ his raw strength. The Outsider's teeth clamp onto the muscle above Corvo’s collarbone—not tightly, but it’s enough to send wildfire rushing straight to his cock. He wants—Void, he wants more. “Marking me again?” Corvo pants.

“You don’t— _oh_. You don’t s-sound. Opposed.”

“I’m not.” Corvo is trying to angle his hips to meet the Outsider’s on every drop. “I’m not—take whatever you want, I—”

The Outsider bites down hard, moaning through it, and pain _ignites_ but the edges are bright with pleasure; Corvo is only half-aware of the groan that punches out of him in response. He’s already hurtling toward the edge, and he doesn’t want to go alone. He locks his left arm around the Outsider’s waist, then uses his right hand to grip the Outsider’s cock. _Void_ , he loves how responsive the Outsider is, whimpering and immediately twitching into Corvo’s fist, a wet glide. Corvo lifts the Outsider with his arm and strokes at the same tempo with his hand.

“Oh, Void.” The Outsider’s voice is doing that _thing_ again, where it drops impossibly deep, like it’s coming directly from the center of his chest and he has no control over it whatsoever. “Oh, Corvo— _Corvo,_ please _—_ ”

It should be ridiculous that his own name gets him even closer. “Too much?”

“No.” The Outsider’s hands go to Corvo’s hair; he plants their foreheads together, his eyes closed. “Don’t change a— _ah!—_ ” His eyes open, heavy-lidded and _so_ dark, his whole body arching into the pace and rhythm Corvo sets for him.

Corvo thinks _te amo_ , thinks _mi cara_ , and manages, “Tell me what you said. The—Pandyssian.”

The Outsider’s eyes damn near glaze over with pleasure. He murmurs, “I’ll always love you,” and Corvo _moans_ , and the Outsider comes.

Corvo doesn’t change his pace, just lets the Outsider soak them both, watching in shocked, ravenous disbelief. The Outsider’s chest shudders as it expands and he’s shaking to the tips of his hair, his mouth open around a moan that doesn’t end, and doesn’t end, and only when it turns into a gasp, turns into “Corvo, with me—please—” does Corvo realize he’s holding back, and lets go.

It thunders through him like a burst of Void magic: dark and glittering, a relentless rush in his veins, ripples of pleasure that crash through him again and again. The Outsider feels even tighter around him, an easy glide from Corvo’s own come, and Corvo breathes, “Outsider, fuck, _fuck_ , yes,” and tilts his face up.

The Outsider meets him there, kissing filthy-wide and wet, a deep, eager press into Corvo’s mouth, and Corvo can’t hold back a moan at the feeling of being so violently _needed_. He kisses back, and kisses back, and kisses back.

It takes long, quiet moments before they can do anything else.

Sweat shines between them, along with everything else. Panting, the Outsider studies the mess, swiping his fingertips against Corvo’s stomach. Corvo shivers, muscles spasming. “Sex is _filthy_ ,” the Outsider decides, and Corvo laughs, breathless.

“I don’t mind.” His bones creak when he slackens his grip around the Outsider’s waist, he was holding on so tightly.

The Outsider grins. “Neither do I.”

Corvo wets his lips. “Teach me. _Ego—_?”

The Outsider looks dazed, like he does every time. As if this is the first time Corvo has said he wanted to learn, and not his tenth lesson this week. The Outsider gulps, seemingly steadying himself. He whispers, “ _Ego semper amare._ ”

Corvo repeats it, careful. The Outsider has told him his accent is flawless, but _still—_ he wants to get it right.

He must, because the Outsider’s eyes are suddenly bright, almost sparkling in the firelight. “Corvo,” the Outsider whispers. “You’re a natural.”

Corvo loves him. Down to his bones, down to his soul, he just—he wants to put that look on the Outsider’s face as long as he lives. He tugs the Outsider down for another kiss, and laughs when the Outsider pushes him back onto the blankets.

*

*

*

As he drifts off in the circle of Corvo’s strong, scarred arms, the Outsider watches sparks rise in the hearth and thinks, _I am desperate for a name._

Not the one the cultists stole from him. Not the title the world gave him. Every day, _Outsider_ feels less like him and more like the past. It feels like the Void-version of himself—detached, only curious because it was something to do. _You’re so much more now_ , Corvo told him, and over the past week, the Outsider is finally starting to agree.

He runs through his list of potential names again in his mind, its latest iteration. Whatever he chooses—he wants to hear it in Corvo’s mouth. Unthinking, to get his attention. Half-choked, shocky with heat. From across a room, Corvo speaking it in conversation with Emily or Billie or any of the rest.

He’ll decide soon. He knows he will. The _rightness_ of one will strike him out of the blue, and he’ll realize it was the obvious choice all along.

He only needs to be patient, and trust that it will come to him.

He burrows deeper back into Corvo’s arms and sighs contentedly when Corvo’s mouth presses against his neck. He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time on awiba: it’s where ~~they made me~~ i made myself


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my gaaaad. we’re here. we did it. 
> 
> what the fuck.
> 
> and _thank you._
> 
> i can’t tell you how freaking worthwhile you’ve made this, all of you. comments or kudos or lurks. seriously, i do not know how to handle any of you, you’re so kind, you’re so sweet, you've BEEN so sweet week after week, and i’m forever grateful that you went on this journey with me, even though it's literally more than twice as long as i thought it would be. fucking wild. thank you so, so damn much. i've had so much fun with you. 
> 
> and if, uh, anybody wants the playlist, [have at it](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0BaB3rSQsVwAgXrZDvkLN8?si=qXxDsFIUQyG8vAB6tdHXTQ). the genres (and tones) are all OVER the place but it’s split into vocals + instrumentals (each in rough story order) and finishes with what im calling the serkonan beach vaycay theme—won’t be in text, but eyyy, riviera vibes.
> 
> so. one more time, shall we?
> 
> <3

It’s barely five o’clock in the evening, and the Call of the Sea is _packed_. Patrons, employees, two fiddlers who’ve brought dancers to the space in front of the hearth—quite the crowd for a reopening.

Corvo says as much to Tev.

“It’s been like this all day,” Tev calls over the din. He’s pulling taps behind the bar, a cluster of mugs in his fist and cheer plain on his face. “Absolutely wall-to-wall. You’re lucky you found a seat.”

“It’s not luck.” Corvo lifts his ale for a drink. “Just a matter of having friends who take pity.”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” says Lettie, beside him. She lights a cigarette, her fine black gloves hiding the Mark on her left hand. “We had to fight to keep that chair open.”

“Who’s _we_ ,” Billie scoffs, leaning in from Lettie’s other side. Their shoulders are nudging together. “One look from the—from Nameless was all it took.”

“Where is he, anyway— _oi! Nameless!_ ” Tev hollers it into the tavern, then pushes the brimming mugs across the bar to their recipients. “Get your arse over here, your man is moping without you!”

Corvo nearly drops his ale. “I am not _moping—_ ”

“You’re at least pining,” says Lettie, streaming smoke now. “You keep looking for him.”

“I’m allowed. I’ve barely seen him since I got here.”

“What,” says Billie, smirking. “Our company isn’t good enough?”

“ _Hi_.” The Outsider arrives just behind Corvo and Lettie, and slides an arm around Corvo’s shoulders, tucking himself against Corvo’s side. “Sorry, I’m here—Ava and her mother caught me, and then Amos—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” says Corvo, face heating even as he leans into the Outsider’s arm. “I’m _enjoying_ the company.” He says it pointedly to Billie, who rolls her eyes fondly before leaning in so Lettie can light a cigarette for her, too.

“But I know you haven’t got much time.” The Outsider brushes a kiss against Corvo’s temple.

“I can stay a little longer.” Corvo’s face heats further. Even with his bonecharm, knowing no one could recognize him—a lifetime spent avoiding public displays of affection is a hard habit to break.

“Aren’t you two a picture,” croons Tev, leaning on the bar across from them, a rag over his shoulder. “So sweet on each other now. Never guess it’s you lovebirds who took down the Ab—well. You know.”

“Group effort,” Corvo insists.

Tev wrinkles his nose. “Mostly you two. Anyway, you’re pros. Can you do the City Watch next?”

Corvo glances at the Outsider, who glances right back, the amused look on his face clearly asking, _Do you want to tell him?_

Three times in the last two weeks, Corvo and the Outsider have interfered with Watch arrests during their late-night patrols. What the Abbey did to so-called heretics, the Watch does to so-called criminals—far more subtly than the Abbey, and with even more support from on high.

It’s always been this way; cut the Watch, and it bleeds corruption. But they can focus on it now—and they are. Slowly.

Corvo still isn’t sure he should reveal that to anyone just yet. To the Outsider’s questioning gaze, he quirks a brow and hopes it says, _Let’s keep that to ourselves._

“Something to consider,” says the Outsider to Tev, his clear eyes bright.

“Not like you won’t have time.” Tev gestures at Corvo. “What with you retiring.”

Lettie gapes at Corvo. “You’re retiring?”

“I’m not—no, I’m not retiring,” Corvo insists. “Just taking more time off. From both jobs. Starting to train replacements.” A potential Royal Protector candidate is working with Emily tonight, in fact. The thought practically gives Corvo hives, but Wyman will be there, and Corvo will be close, and—it’s fine. It _will_ be fine. “Eventually, yes, I’ll retire, but not now. Not yet.”

Lettie tuts. “Well—as long as I get my next assignment, I’m set.”

Billie, smirking again, meets Corvo’s eyes from Lettie’s other side. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

Slowly, Lettie swivels to look at her. “Wait. _You_ —?”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to be hearing this,” says Tev with a kind of amused alarm, pushing off from the bar, turning to a cluster of approaching patrons.

“Me,” Billie says to Lettie. “Soon, anyway.”

Corvo grins into his ale. It’s not official—in fact, it may never be; why any civilian ever needed to know the identity of the Royal Spymaster is beyond him—but he and Billie have been talking about it. She has innumerable connections; she rarely stays in one place, but there are plenty of ways to reach her. And Corvo trusts her. A strange thing to say, considering their pasts, but he does. And she seems genuinely interested. He’s glad to bring her aboard.

“So,” the Outsider says, still close. Warm. “Founder’s Day gala. If it really does start at seven, you’d best get going soon.”

“I know.” Corvo bands an arm around the Outsider’s lower back. _Choose a name,_ he thinks. _Choose a name so you can come to events like that with me._ “I wish you could be there.”

“I wish I could be there, too.” The Outsider smiles. “Would we dance, if you had more than one drink?”

Corvo snorts. “I regret that you know that about me.”

The Outsider snorts. “And?”

“…I’d consider it. For you, I’d even consider it sober.”

Pink flares across the Outsider’s pale cheekbones.

Corvo’s heart pitter-patters. “You know, the next time there’s an event this size, a dance isn’t such a bad idea. If everyone’s going to gossip anyway…we dance one waltz in front of them all, the press would corner us, and they could get the whole story in a single swoop. No ambiguity, no rumors afterwards. Just that.”

“Just that?” The Outsider’s smile has broadened into something almost teasing.

“Just that, and it would be done.” Corvo squints at him. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Like what?” It’s all innocence.

“Like you know something I don’t.”

“I have four thousand years on you. I always know something you don’t.”

Corvo hopes his sigh sounds appropriately longsuffering. “You know what I mean.”

“I just hoped you might say something like that. About the—dancing. And the crowd.”

Corvo squints a little harder. “Why?”

“Because I like the idea, that’s all.” The Outsider is nearly laughing by now. “Anyway, weren’t you leaving?”

“So eager to be rid of me.”

“Eager to help you avoid a scolding from Emily.”

“It’s a risk I’ll have to take.”

Corvo settles his tab (Tev tries to tell him it’s on the house, so Corvo leaves an outrageous tip). He bids goodbye to Billie and Lettie. Billie, he’ll see tomorrow for a meeting about the next portion of her spymaster duties. Lettie, he’ll send a note before the end of the week. Her connections through the bank mean she can bring him information about various accounts with the Watch, and he intends to find a use for that information. After a bear hug from Tev, Corvo lets the Outsider walk him out through the kitchens and into the side alley so they can say goodbye in private.

It really does put an ache in Corvo’s heart, leaving the Outsider in favor of putting in an appearance at a gala where he technically won’t even be working. The Outsider looks striking—his hair finger-combed, his cheeks still pink, his open vest and angular shirt collar sharp along his jaw. “I’ll see you after?” Corvo asks, hopeful. “Everyone should be gone by midnight.”

“You’ll see me,” says the Outsider. His eyes shine with good cheer. He steps into Corvo’s space, slides his hands into Corvo’s hair— _yes_ —and kisses him.

Corvo smiles into it, settling his hands against the sinuous line of the Outsider’s lower back to pull him in close. They’ve been together for three weeks now, and he hasn’t tired of this. Every kiss warms him, feels like a promise kept. The Outsider’s lips are soft, moving gently against Corvo’s, and he smells so _good_ , that clean herbal scent faint and heady. Corvo wants to nose across the Outsider’s throat, breathe him in deeper. But he’ll take this. _Later,_ he thinks. _Later_.

When they pull back, Corvo tilts their foreheads together. “I do wish you could be there,” he murmurs. “I don’t ever want to rush you, but…” He nudges the Outsider’s nose with his, smiling so the Outsider knows it’s a tease: “Pick a name, will you?”

The Outsider hums through his smile. “I’m closer than you know.”

Corvo can live with that. He’s about to release the Outsider, then remembers: “You know, I never did say it: congratulations on reopening. It’s incredible, watching you with the people in there. You should be proud.”

“It’s Tev’s bar,” the Outsider protests. “I only—”

“Don’t tell him that.” Corvo smiles. “You know he’d give you credit. The point is, they tried to burn you down, but you came back. You rebuilt. That part’s yours as much as Tev’s.”

The Outsider’s eyes have gone a little wide, a little vulnerable. His next breath shakes on its way out. He whispers, “Thank you, Corvo.”

“Of course.” Corvo longs for the moment he can just—tack the Outsider’s name onto the end of that kind of sentiment. _I’m closer than you know_ , the Outsider said, and Corvo hopes so. He dearly hopes so. “See you tonight, then,” he murmurs.

“See you tonight,” the Outsider agrees. He leans up toward Corvo once more. Corvo draws him in closer and kisses him tender and slow. When they break apart, when they step away from each other, their hands trail down each other’s arms until their fingers catch. The Outsider smiles.

 _Tonight_ , Corvo thinks, smiling back. _It’s only a few hours._

He can face a gala—he can face _anything_ —if he knows he’ll see the Outsider at the end.

*

*

*

The Outsider slips back into the tavern, his heart thudding pleasantly, his lower lip in his mouth as if he can keep Corvo closer that way. He’s got a little time, so he takes Corvo’s vacated seat and chats with Billie and Lettie.

“Shouldn’t you be going?” Billie asks at last, pulling Lettie’s pocket watch out of her waistcoat. “Yeah—it’s nearly six.”

“ _Hey_.” Lettie snatches the pocket watch back, but she’s smiling—and then blushing, when Billie loops her arm through the crook in Lettie’s elbow. “Yeah,” says Lettie, looking at the Outsider, fighting her own fluster. “Doesn’t the gala start at seven?”

“I plan on being fashionably late. But you’re right—it’s about time.” He still needs to wash and dress, and then there’s the long walk to the Tower.

“So this is it,” says Billie. “Next time we see you, you’ll have a name.”

The thought sends a thrill of elated terror through him. “That’s the plan.”

“I think it’s romantic,” says Lettie. “Telling Corvo first. Saving him from suffering a gala by himself.”

The Outsider sighs. “Billie, some spymaster’s apprentice you are—telling everyone my plan.”

“Not _everyone_. Just Lettie.”

“And _still_ ,” Lettie says to Billie, “you couldn’t tell me that _you_ might be the one giving me my next assignments.” Her hand covers Billie’s, affectionate. “That’s a conflict of interest if I ever heard one.”

“I won’t be the only one handing out assignments,” says Billie. “We’re in the clear. And hey.” Billie unloops herself from Lettie and comes around to grip the Outsider by the shoulders. To look him in the eyes. “Don’t sweat it. You’ll be great. Just—chin up, don’t let the press boss you around, and lean on Corvo when you need to.”

“I usually do.” The words nearly stick in his throat. He wouldn’t be here without Billie—for so many reasons. She took a chance on him, and then never stopped. “Thank you, Billie. For everything.”

“Always, Outsider.” The corner of her mouth pulls up. “Guess that’s the last time I can say that, huh.” She pulls him into a brusque embrace.

“You know,” says Lettie, “I didn’t really picture you as the hugging type.”

“Apparently I am,” says the Outsider as he and Billie separate. “I’ve one for you, too, if you like.”

“I would!” She wraps him up tightly. “Listen,” she says in his ear, “I know I was only ever convenient for you, but it’s been nice, getting to be part of—all this. Thanks.”

He pulls back, surprised. “Maybe you were convenient at first, back when I was in the Void. But you’ve helped me so much since I’ve come to Dunwall. You helped save me from Coldridge.”

“But before that,” she says, bitter, “I got caught. I gave you up to your enemies. Honestly, I can’t believe Corvo wants me to work for him, still. Or that you want anything to do with me—much less be my friend.”

“No one asks to get hauled into an interrogation.” The Outsider touches her shoulder. “I know what it’s like. And of course I want to be your friend. You’ve been a dear one to me.” _You helped me remember everything that happened with Daud_ , he thinks. It was that moment in her office—rising from that dark pool of spilled ink, knowing Daud was the new Void entity—that made him feel more free from the Void than when he’d first stepped into the sun back in Serkonos.

He hadn’t realized that even then, he wasn’t quite free. He hadn’t found Corvo. He hadn’t found a name. Now he’s found Corvo, but he still hasn’t spoken his name. _Not free yet_ , he thinks. _But I will be_.

He tells Lettie, “You and Tev were the first people I knew when I settled in here, and you made time for me when I had questions. You were patient with me. And you—you forgave my selfishness for Marking you to serve my purposes instead of yours. That’s more valuable to me than you can ever know. _And_ you helped break me from prison. Not everyone would do that for their friends. You’ll always be one of mine, I hope.”

Smiling, Lettie ducks her head, her long blonde fringe hiding her eyes. “I hope so, too.”

Billie, meanwhile, looks nothing short of proud.

The Outsider takes both of their hands, the way Emily’s done for him, and squeezes them tightly. “Thank you both,” he says one more time, then goes to find Tev.

They nearly collide on his way into the busy kitchens; Tev offloads a tray to a server and hauls the Outsider into the doorway between kitchen and alley so they’ve got space to chat. “Tev,” the Outsider says, exasperated, “you’re still working? Surely your shift is over soon.”

“Oh, it was done hours ago. But I’m still enjoying myself, so I might as well keep going. What about you? Isn’t it time for you to start transforming into a noble?”

“Yes—I’m leaving now.”

“Right on. And better you than me. Sounds like a nightmare.” Tev looks him over. “You’re still going to tell him first, I take it?”

Guilt flares up, sharper than it had been with Billie and Lettie. “I’m sorry—”

“Oi, none of that. _I’m_ not the lover you’ve been waiting forty-odd centuries to find. I can find out your name in the gossip columns tomorrow.”

“Still.” The Outsider tries to smile. “I honestly don’t know how I’d have done any of this without you, Tev. I owe you so much.”

“Funny,” says Tev, grinning. “I feel the same way. Let’s call it even, if you keep coming around once you’re officially part of high society.”

“Of course I will. Void, I’ll be back tomorrow. There’s still a few things to finish around here.” The Outsider holds out a hand for a formal shake.

Tev scoops him up into a massive embrace instead.

“Go on and clean yourself up,” he says when he pulls back. “Can’t show up at the palace reeking like a still.”

The Outsider smiles. “I’ll see you soon, Tev.”

“Outsider’s hairy arse, I hope so.”

***

The Outsider drops into Corvo’s room. The hearth is burning low, the rest of the room dim and quiet—odd, without Corvo there, yet with so much evidence of him. The coat he was wearing at the Call of the Sea is draped over his desk chair. A notebook waits on the nightstand with a pen jammed between the pages, marking where he and the Outsider left off with their latest studies of the Outsider’s native Pandyssian language.

The Outsider ducks into the washroom for the mirror, quickly straightening his jacket and smoothing down his hair after the climb. He’s pleased with the outfit; navy blue is a good color on him. The sharp, off-center details of the jacket and waistcoat are offset by an oval brooch the color of his eyes, anchoring the folds of his ivory neckerchief. “You can do this,” he whispers.

He sets his weapons belt on the desk before he goes. No one at this gala except guards on duty—and Corvo—will be armed. It makes him feel more naked than he’d like, but he can make do without his knives. He’ll improvise, if he has to.

With one more deep breath, he heads for the door.

But someone says, “Going to a party, Outsider?”

His hands close on empty air; his knives are back at the desk, so he whips toward the voice only to find— _Daud_. Sitting jauntily at one corner of the sofa, an arm draped along the back, a cigar balanced across the black knuckles of his gloves. His black eyes gleam, dark as the shards of the Void that flicker around him. The Outsider can _hear_ the Void—a low pitch with a slightly higher one twined around it. Gusts of breeze he can’t feel, but knows are blistering-cold.

He wills his racing heart to slow. “If you’re waiting for Corvo, it may be awhile yet.”

Daud smirks. “Not waiting for Corvo.”

Odd. “You’ve only ever come to him before.”

“He’s more fascinating than you are.”

The Outsider can’t bring himself to bristle; it’s a belief they have in common. “Then what are you doing here?”

Daud shrugs one shoulder. “I thought I’d wish you luck. You’re about to cut the last threads still tying you to the Void. How’s it feel?”

“Like it’s about time.”

“Hm.” Daud takes a draw from his cigar.

 _Is this how I was?_ The Outsider thinks, not sure whether he should be amused or horrified. _Just…happy to throw people off? Answer in my own time?_ But he’s too curious about something to wait for Daud to continue. “The Void,” says the Outsider. “Does it suit you?”

“It does,” says Daud. “I thought you might try to take it back, but it seems like you’ve found your peace here.”

“I have. And you, there.”

“Lot more I can do to help than I thought.”

“Like sending Ava Comber to me.”

“Willing to do more.” Smoke from Daud’s cigar twists around the shimmering Void splinters. “There’s a Watch officer whose name I could share. The first domino in a long line that leads straight to the rot at the heart of the Watch. Neutralize him, and the rest will start to fall.”

The Outsider nearly says _yes_ without a second thought. But if Daud wants something in return, or if it’s someone the Outsider is already familiar with—whatever the case, it will drive him to utter distraction, and he’s distracted enough. He forces himself to smile. “I want to know,” he says. “I do. But tonight, there’s only one name I have the strength to focus on.”

Daud’s smirk deepens. “I think you’ve earned that. Ask me again when you’re ready.”

It’s hard to believe that kind of generosity, coming from Daud. Especially when the Outsider himself was never so generous to Daud. The Outsider wants to question it, but won’t insult the man with doubt. “Thank you. I will.”

“Good luck,” says Daud.

And he’s gone.

***

Wyman meets the Outsider at the alcove leading into the throne room and claps him on the back. “Ready?”

The Outsider is staring through the alcove door and into the packed crowd of nobility. Loitering, dancing, drinking. He gulps. “I think so. There’s…just a lot of people.”

“The worst, isn’t it,” agrees Wyman. “But I’m sure you’ll be all right once you find Corvo. I always feel better if I’ve got eyes on Emily.”

That makes the Outsider smile. “Where _is_ Emily? Shouldn’t she be near the throne—”

He hears something that sounds almost like Daud’s appearance in Corvo’s room—a dark howl that hovers on the edge of his perception. Before he can question it, movement catches his eye; he flinches toward a Void-black shadow pouring out of the heating vent near the floorboards, reaching for them with fingers like scythes—and then Emily is standing, materializing out of her Void-shadow.

“ _Emily_ ,” Wyman says, exasperated, looking frantically about, “how many times has Corvo said it— _not on Tower grounds_ —”

“Corvo isn’t here,” Emily scoffs. “And neither is anyone else who would care.” She wraps an arm around Wyman’s waist and leans into them. She’s lovely in purple and gold and blue, and grins at the Outsider. “ _Hi_. You look sharp—blue’s a great color on you. I like the brooch.”

“Thank you.” His face heats; he’s going to have to go into the throne room pink-cheeked. “I hope it’s fashionable enough for the company here.”

“Oh, plenty.” Emily beams at him. “So? How are we feeling?”

So many people are asking, the Outsider is starting to feel dizzy. “Nervous. Good. Ready.”

Emily holds out a hand to the door. “Then go on.”

“Just one more thing.” The Outsider turns to them both, trying to smile. “I’m not sure how everyone out there will react to—to me. All this. But I do want you to know that I appreciate how much you’ve helped me.” And not just with his confidence. The past week, he’s been coming to the Tower early in the evenings so Emily and Wyman can teach him the steps to waltzes and dances he knows in theory but not practice. “Just—thank you.”

“It was our pleasure,” says Wyman. “And forget how everyone else reacts. You’re in with us. And Corvo.”

“You’re our family,” Emily adds, and her large brown eyes—her mother’s shape, her father’s color—shine so earnestly. “You know that, don’t you?”

He knows when it comes to Corvo. But he didn’t think anyone else would feel the same. He finds his throat tightening, his eyes prickling. He’s never had a family, and yet—they are, aren’t they? Everyone he’s seen today? They’d all agree with Emily. He rasps, “I know now.”

Emily pulls him into an embrace, and Wyman flings their arms around the both of them.

When they release him, beaming, the Outsider takes another deep breath. He tugs at his jacket one more time, straightens his brooch.

Then he steps into the throne room.

The air is full of music, the center of the floor a-twirl with dancers, the edges of the room bustling with others. He spots members of the press when one of their silvergraph machines pops nearby, a cloud of smoke bursting forth as the posing nobles laugh. As he works his way across the room, a few people catch his eye; they trade demure smiles. Many ignore him, but some stares linger, their interest in someone _new_ and _unknown_ almost palpable.

He spots Corvo near the back of the hall, chatting with Ernest Forsythe and two more MPs, and—the Outsider’s heart catches.

Corvo looks damn fine in a tailored, high-collared jacket so deeply purple it’s nearly aubergine, his waistcoat busy with gold accents. His hair has been tamed into a kind of windswept compliance (instantly, the Outsider longs to muss it). His eyes sparkle in the cozy light of the room.

Wyman was right. The Outsider _does_ feel better with Corvo in his line of sight.

When Forsythe turns to one of the other MPs, Corvo’s gaze slips away, glancing around the room without focusing on anything. The Outsider watches Corvo’s shoulders slowly rise and fall, and he catches Corvo’s brief look of… almost wistfulness. Sadness. Then his gaze—

Their eyes lock.

Corvo’s drop-jawed recognition hits the Outsider like a bolt of electricity from crown to heel. The Outsider can’t help but break into a broad smile—broader, when Corvo’s astonishment turns to delight.

Corvo says something quickly to his companions, then begins weaving through the crowd toward the Outsider. Who picks his way toward Corvo.

They reach each other just as the string quartet finishes its latest waltz and the dancers applaud. The Outsider says, “Hello, Corvo.”

Corvo has wrangled his surprise into curiosity, but he’s still a little breathless. He says, “You’ve found a name.”

Warmth flickers through the Outsider. “I have.”

“Do I get to know?”

“Yes.” The Outsider glances over at the cluster of musicians, just starting up again with a dance in a slower tempo. “Though not here.” People are starting to look a little more closely. “I wondered if you might like to dance. How did you phrase it? ‘Dance one waltz in front of all of them, and the press can get the whole story in a single swoop?’”

Corvo laughs. “No ambiguity.”

“Exactly.”

Corvo holds out his hand, palm-up, hope gilding the warmth in his eyes. The Outsider settles his fingers into Corvo’s callused grip, and lets Corvo lead him to the dance floor.

They settle in as close as the dance allows, which is _close_. The Outsider’s arm drapes along one of Corvo’s broad shoulders, Corvo’s hand heavy and warm against his waist. His left hand is a perch for the Outsider’s right. Heat radiates from Corvo’s body, and they’re so close together that the Outsider has to remind himself to breathe.

He can dance these steps without thought, which was exactly the point of his lessons with Emily and Wyman. Though now the Outsider wishes he _did_ have to think about the steps, because more and more eyes are turning toward them, and he’s desperate for a distraction. The Royal Protector isn’t known for dancing, despite his obvious talent for it. His every move is graceful. The Outsider keeps up well enough, but feels like a newborn colt by comparison.

Corvo grips his hand a little tighter, as if he can tell the Outsider’s attention is flitting away. “I was just thinking about you,” Corvo murmurs.

“Oh?” The Outsider thinks of Corvo’s wistful stare just moments ago. “When you looked so melancholy?”

“Yes. I was wishing you could be here. That we could have this, already.” Corvo gestures between them with both their hands. “I should’ve known you’d be watching.”

“Should I have told you my plan earlier?”

“No, this is much better. Less time to overthink it. Though if I’d been paying attention, I could’ve guessed, the way you were acting back at the bar.”

“Oh, was I acting a _way?_ ”

“You were cryptic—or not cryptic enough. I’m realizing now that you laid out your whole plan, and I didn’t even notice.”

A silvergraph bulb flashes and pops.

Corvo’s hand slips a little further across the Outsider’s waist, toward the small of his back. Tugging him just a little closer. “I assume you know that the second the dance ends, the press will want to talk. There’s still enough time left in the day for them to print something about us in the gossip columns tomorrow morning.”

“I guessed as much. I’m ready. Are you?”

“Very.” Corvo breathes it in a rush. “Once it’s done, we can just…be us. Be free.”

 _You’re about to cut the last threads tying you to the Void_. “We will be, won’t we.”

“When we are,” says Corvo. “I’m going to look into how soon we can catch a ship to Serkonos.”

“Finally,” sighs the Outsider, happy to dream of it. “Would you let me take you dancing there?”

“I just might.” Corvo’s eyes gleam. “Though the kinds of dancing halls I used to visit when I was younger—I can’t say those appeal.”

“I know of some that would, I think. Better music. And drinks. Fewer teenagers inhaling alcohol by the liter.”

Corvo laughs. “Sounds good to me.” His brown eyes are soft, almost awestruck. The love in them feels overwhelming. Unconditional.

The Outsider has to look away to catch his breath, his forehead landing against Corvo’s jaw.

His name hovers on the tip of his tongue. He can feel it, ready to spring off and into the air. Ready to become as real as it already feels. But by the Void, he can’t stand the thought of just looking up and _saying it_. “I want to tell you,” the Outsider murmurs. “But I think I need to kiss you first.”

The corner of Corvo’s mouth pulls up. “Not about to say no to that.” But he goes solemn. “Last chance to back out. I can still find a way to smuggle you out of here, if you’d rather try again another time.”

It’s _that_ that gives the Outsider the confidence he needs. Corvo, even now, would help him turn back, no matter what it cost Corvo, no matter what Corvo would have to endure from the other nobles.

“Thank you,” says the Outsider, looking up, and oh, Corvo is so beautiful. “But I’m ready.”

Corvo tilts their foreheads together, almost wildly intimate in such a public space. The Outsider can practically taste his own heartbeat, it’s thumping so hard—harder, when another silvergraph bulb pops. “Come here,” Corvo suggests, and the Outsider tilts his jaw up and lets his mouth nudge into Corvo’s. Corvo fights a smile to kiss him back, and he folds the Outsider’s hand against his lapel so he can sink his fingertips into the Outsider’s hair. It’s Corvo who parts their lips, gives the Outsider a brush of tongue that’s at once steadying and incendiary. Conversation rises around them, a steady buzz that suddenly the Outsider has no time for. No care for whatsoever, even as the music begins to come to an end.

The Outsider pulls back, breathes deeply.

Corvo whispers, “No matter what it is— _ego semper amare_.”

It knocks the wind out of him.

Not in another four thousand years could he have imagined that this is where he’d find himself. That he’d get to have this. Have _Corvo_.

Billie and Daud freed him from the Void, Corvo and his friends freed him from his own stubborn refusal to depend on others, but he thinks he may have freed himself from his past by understanding— _accepting_ —that he’s allowed to embrace the things he can’t foresee.

That he can choose what he wants, every moment, because no path is complete.

There’s only now. _This_. Trying anew. Beginning again.

He leans up to Corvo’s ear and whispers the name he’s chosen for himself. 

Corvo turns to stare, those clever eyes wide with wonder, and breathes it back.

His every molecule rises to the gravel-worn sound of it in Corvo’s mouth. It reverberates down to his marrow; he’s got to catch his breath against sudden, relieved laughter at the _rightness_ of it.

Corvo says it again, practically luminous in his excitement. Then again, smiling, lips to forehead. Then once more, against his ear, warm and sweet.

Giddy, his heart ready to soar from his chest, the former Outsider drapes his arms around Corvo’s neck and tugs him down for another kiss.

He’s free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you, my loves. thank you, every single one of you.
> 
> come say hi over at [my tumblr](http://sp-oops.tumblr.com) any time, i’d love to chat—my messages are open, and i love nothing so much as yelling about fictional hotties like these old geezers.
> 
> <3


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